

### Time Enough To Die

THE WATCHMAKER—Book One

Lee Capp

Smashwords Edition

Time Enough to Die

Copyright © 2014 Lee Capp

Cover Design and Interior Layout by Laura Shinn Designs

http://laurashinn.yolasite.com

{Revised 5/2015}

Smashwords License Notes

All rights reserved—This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

_Time Enough To Die_ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination solely, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as in any way real.

Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations,

or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Connect with Lee online at:

http://larryleecaplin.com

Dedication

In loving memory of Jeffery James Tuttle, the very

best friend anyone ever had.

Acknowledgements

I am very grateful to my lovely wife Bea, for encouraging me to turn a life-long hobby into a retirement profession, and for bearing up under countless readings, and to my brother Dale for his endless support and technical assistance. Both made many terrific suggestions for improvement along the way and most, if not all, were better ideas than my own.

My heartfelt appreciation to author and volunteer proof-reader Ruth Rutherford, for her countless hours spent poring over the manuscript. It would be nearly unreadable without her efforts. Ruth, you have the soul of an artist—and the eye of an eagle. Thank you.

Many thanks to the real-life watchmaker, Matt James Schutt. A terrific young man with a limitless talent for fixing and repairing almost anything that mortal man can screw-up. Sadly, he does not actually time travel, but has the same problem with it as all the rest of us—never enough. In addition to his invaluable expertise, story line contributions and advice, I stole several things from him. First, his job title. Second, his first two names. And third—his cowlick.

Thanks Matt. You're the best—and it's been a pleasure.
PROLOGUE

Kilmainham Gaol

Dublin, Ireland

May 12, 1916

The boy's dream was pleasant enough. It would have been alright with him had it gone on much longer. Jenny was on top of him, and he was deep inside her, just as he had been so many times in real life. She was riding him hard, her breath coming in short bursts, punctuated by soft moans and grunts as their bodies slapped together. The boy, groaning deeply himself and nearing the point of release, drew up his knees, and reaching back, placed his hands around her buttocks and gently guided her rhythm and pace, slowing her as the pressure built inside his body.

The end never came as a rough voice brought him rudely awake.

"Wake up boy," the voice said. "Time to say your prayers. This is the day you die."

Thirteen had gone to the firing squad before him. Only Connolly the leader, and himself, the youngest were left to be executed. It was to be a sort of grand finale to the whole sordid court-martial and execution affair. Connolly, seriously wounded in the fighting and unable to stand, was to be tied to a chair and a rough black hood put over his head. The boy would be placed standing against the sandbags. If he tried to flee, he would simply be tied to a wooden post, and none too gently at that. He knew that was what they all expected, that he would try to run and struggle. They expected him to cry and beg for mercy and maybe call for his mother. He was after all only eighteen and actually three weeks short of that.

They were to be disappointed. He might be young, but he was old enough to have picked up a rifle and old enough to have had killed with it. For freedom. For independence. For Ireland. He would not now cry or beg of these English dogs, now the time had come to pay the price of his decisions. The boy did not know if he would be offered the choice of a black hood, or if it would simply be forced on him. What he did know however, was that if he were given the choice by the head executioner, he would, in the strongest and most fearless voice he could muster, tell the fat greasy bastard to kindly ball the thing up and shove it up his arse.

The boy arose, and crossing the narrow and tiny cell stood pissing into a slop bucket placed in the corner. He did not intend either to wet his pant when the bullets hit. He did not think he was going to be able to do much about the other. His bowels had been rather seized up for the past couple of days, ever since the sham court-martial had ended and his fate had been sealed by the English bastard judge. They had granted several days between the judgment and the execution. Time to allow, they had said, for him to make his peace with his maker, and to ask for God's forgiveness. Rather more like it, thought the boy, time to allow for the condemned to stew, worry and grieve. The boy did not particularly believe in God or his peace. He certainly did not believe he was in need of forgiveness. Absent the need of attending to those particular details had freed up a lot of time the past three days for stewing, and for the worry.

Most of his worry was as to how he would comport himself in his final moments. The stewing had been for his family. He would leave behind a loving mother Lillian and a younger sister Rhoda. His father—well, perhaps loving was not exactly the correct adjective to describe him—although the boy certainly respected him well enough. He wondered sometimes if he had made his father proud or rather had shamed him by his actions in the Easter revolt. His father was a patriot, he knew that for sure. And he knew that his father loved Ireland. But he also knew that he had his strange ways. His father had never been much of a joiner, preferring instead his own company most of the time and especially on his long nightly walks. Time, he had said, to clear his head and reflect on his life—the past and the future. Sometimes his father would take him along on these walks. He would speak of his love for Ireland and talk of the things that his own father had shown and taught him. The secret and mysterious things of boyhood, he had called them, recalling people and places and reliving scenes that only his eyes could see. His father, unlike himself, most certainly did believe in God and his commandments. He was as Irish Catholic as a man could be. The boy doubted that his da would approve very much of his son taking life.

He stewed about Jenny McGuire too. He had intended to ask her to become his wife. He was sorry that would never happen now. They had met when they were mere children, and had begun a clandestine but torrid sexual relationship at almost the first moment their developing boy and girl parts had allowed for it. They had been careful, right from the start. He would leave no children behind. Sex with Jenny had always been wonderful and he turned to it now in memory and in dreams, as he had last night. Remembering their passion was one of the few things that brought him much pleasure now and one of the few things that took his mind off his impending death. He believed that leaving her was going to be the one thing about life that he was going to miss the most. That was, of course if he were going to be in a position to miss anything at all. He wondered if he was going to meet God at the moment of his death, or Satan, or perhaps just be gone, into an eternal void of blackness and nothingness. That was what he expected most of all of course—just nothing. Only time would tell, he thought—and not that much time either, as he could just see the lightening of the sky through the small barred window of the cell.

The clanging of the cell block door at the end of the short hall brought him out of his musings. A guard emerged empty handed. It was still early he thought. He had expected them to come for him a bit later, and perhaps offer him a meal. After all, it was considered by the English poor form to kill a man with an empty stomach. He had intended to reject that offer of course right along with the rejection of the black hood, and he hoped, in as witty a way, and now it seemed he was being denied that opportunity. A moment later he was shocked to see another man come through the door right behind the guard, carrying a breakfast tray. That man was his father, Aedan McCabe.

Aedan McCabe was a tall and straight man, rather good looking for a man of forty-four years. A shock of black hair, now graying at the temples, adorned his head. There was no sign of baldness. He always looked and acted, to his son at least, as rather _conservative_ —not so much in his political views as in his philosophy and religion. Often times he had warned and admonished his son to "not wade too deep" into those waters. "You get in over your head, and it's mighty easy to drown" he would explain in his heavy Irish accent. He dressed conservatively too. This day he was wearing a grey tweed suit with a vest. It was well worn down too, the same as most of his other belongings. Aedan had never been a rich man, making a living in various trades. In his latest incarnation, he had become a watchmaker, now of over ten years, a profession for which he seemed to have a natural ability and aptitude. He was well respected in Dublin, with many customers of years standing. It was often said that few on the island could repair a watch or a clock as well as Aedan McCabe. He loved his watches too. Today he was wearing his favorite, a curious and ornate gold pocket watch with chain and fob. It was without question his material possession of greatest value. The boy knew that it was very dear to his father. It was the one single thing that belonged to his father that he would never let his son, or anyone else for that matter, touch.

His father came toward him now and slid the tray through the narrow opening of the cell door. "Leave it," he said. "You won't have time to eat."

The boy opened his mouth to speak. There was so much that he wanted to tell his father, messages he wanted him to take to his mother and to Jenny, but Aedan simply waved him silent.

"No time boy," he said. "You are not allowed visitors. I only got in because of Father Shamus O'Malley, a man of God that I have known since we were children. He has a lot of pull with the guards here. He was here to give you absolution and to perform the last rites. You won't be needing either. The guards have given me just two minutes to give you your breakfast and tell you goodbye, the slimy bastards. So son, I want you to be very quiet now and just listen to me and do exactly as I say, without hesitation or question of any kind. Do you think you can do that laddie, as a favor to me?"

The boy nodded his agreement.

"Okay then. First, I love you more than you will ever know. It is a regret of my life that I didn't tell you that every single day of our time together. Second, there is not a man on this Earth who could be more proud of his son for who you are and for what you tried to do for your Country. There will soon be a day when a free and independent Ireland will venerate you and your companions for your heroism and sacrifice. Third, and I'm very sorry to say, that there will be only one of us leaving this prison alive today, and that is going to be you."

Again the boy attempted to speak.

"Shut up son. I know what I'm doing here. Just trust me. There is an English ship bound for America in the harbor right now. It leaves today. It is the Essex. Get on it. I don't care how. In a weeks' time you will be in New York. No one will find you there. In a few years' time all of this will be forgotten. Do not be disheartened by what you will see happen here in the next few seconds. Listen to me now boy and remember this if nothing else. Do not lose the object I am about to give you. Protect it and defend it with your life. Follow in my footsteps. Learn the things I have learned. And if you can, one day come back for me. You will know what I mean later."

With that Aedan reached through the bars, behind his son's neck and with his left hand pulled the boy's head close toward him and again through the bars placed one short kiss on his cheek, while at the same time thrusting a metal object into the boy's hand with his right. Then Aedan pushed his son away with all his might. The boy, taken off balance, fell roughly onto the hard limestone floor.

"Now go!" Aedan shouted.

The guard nearest was already sounding the alarm and raising his rifle at Aedan. "Watch out," the guard shouted to the men behind him, "He's passed the boy a gun!"

Aedan rushed the guard, his fists swinging, but he never made it to the man as a rifle bullet tore through his chest, shredding his heart and ending his life with sudden and awesome finality. The boy's wail, "No. . ." could be heard trailing off.

The guards, seven of them, were now assembled just outside the doorway to the cell block. One of them explained that the boy had a gun. "Doesn't much matter, does it? Looks like the firing squad is now assembled," one of them joked. "Just where the hell did the old man think the lad was going to go anyhow? The door's still locked. The kid's a fish in a barrel. Let's get it done. On the count of three then."

On three, the guards rushed the boy, firing their rifles into the cell as they went. At least twenty rounds went into the small confined space. Aedan would have been gratified to know that one of the rifle rounds ricocheted off the limestone wall and back into a guard's gun arm, hopelessly shattering it. He would survive, but would never hold a firearm again for as long as he lived.

As the crashing sound of gunfire subsided and the smoke began to clear, one of the guards carefully ventured forward to unlock the cell door. It was still almost impossible to see, as an acrid pallor hung over the interior of the cell. It was nearly a full minute before the guard began to bellow and shout—"Blimey, there's no one in here. It's empty! Where the hell did he go?"

The cell was empty indeed. But for the blood of Aedan, now slowly running along the floor and under the bars and the bullet pocked walls of the cell, there was not a single solitary soul or thing inside that prison cell.

The general alarm of Killmainham Prison was sounded.

Roan McCabe had escaped.
CHAPTER ONE

Las Guijas Mountains

Southern Arizona

Friday – August 8, 1952

Sweat dribbled down the young man's back as he squatted on the ridge, watching through binoculars the two silver pickup trucks parked at the entrance to the old Carson mine, about a mile and a quarter or a mile and a half off in the distance, across the mesquite tree and cactus choked McCafferty Canyon.

Although it was only a little past ten o'clock in the morning, the day was heating up rapidly. It had been a dry year in the southern Arizona desert, with little summer monsoon rain to cool things down. If it was going to be necessary to cross over the canyon to the mine, the young man anticipated a long, hard and hot walk down the overgrown and rough old mine road leading up to the back side of the mine.

Little was going on around the two trucks. Since they had rumbled up far side road to the old diggings half an hour ago, and the two men had disappeared into the tunnel, little had happened. A red-tailed hawk soared lazily in circles high above the ridge. Wishing he had the hawk's birds- eye view of the mine, the young man set down the binoculars and began to sort through the contents of his jeans pockets, trying to find the balled-up handkerchief he had used to mop his brow about a dozen times already. When he did finally locate it and pull it out of his pocket, his brand new Arizona driver's license fell out onto the ground along with an old and rather ornate gold pocket watch. Joe stuffed the watch back in the tighter and more secure watch pocket of his jeans. He then picked up the driver's license and studied once again his identity this time around.

"Joseph. Joseph Chambers," he said to no one in particular. "Well Joe, this is a fine way to spend your birthday. Twenty-two years old today and here you are sitting on a ridge in the middle of nowhere sweating your butt off and watching a couple of Mexican smugglers and a stupid hawk. What an exciting guy. Do you know how to celebrate a special occasion or what?"

Looking at the license, he saw that James had done a pretty good job this time. It felt good. It looked good, slightly tattered around the edges as if from a lot of wallet carry. No one would ever glance at it twice. His only objection was to the name. "Joe. . . Joe. . . Joe," he repeated. "The more you say the name, the dumber it gets. A birthday in the middle of nowhere, and a stupid name to boot. Oh well, at least that's why I get the big bucks. No, wait, that's right. You're a volunteer. I almost forgot. Joe, you're as dumb as a fence post, and a short one at that. No MENSA membership for you old buddy."

Deciding to take off his shirt and keep it from getting completely soaked through, Joe tugged at the shirt-tail, and when he did, he loosened the Colt .45 Automatic from the inside the pants holster nestled in the small of his back. The pistol thunked dully onto the ground. Joe groaned with disgust at his own gunfighter ineptness and picked it up, shook a small amount of dirt out of the end of the barrel and stuffed it back into the holster.

"Well old buddy Joe—Wyatt Earp you're not."

He remembered James insisting that he take the big automatic along on this trip. He had laughed and said that it wasn't his style. "I'm a lover, not a fighter," he had said, only to have James press him even harder to take the thing along.

"That's exactly the reason I want you to have it lover boy. You probably couldn't fight your way out of a wet paper bag without a sledge hammer, and then you'd have trouble lifting the hammer."

"Your confidence is overwhelming."

"Listen kid. This time you aren't going to be operating in the middle of Frisco. You're going out of town. Way out of town. And you are going to be looking for several dead bodies."

"Am I going to have to shoot the dead bodies again?" Joe asked facetiously.

James shot him an exasperated look. "Remember, somebody made them dead. They might just make you dead too if they catch you poking around in their shit. These guys play for keeps and they don't take prisoners. And as weird as it is too hear myself saying this, I think I might actually miss you if you didn't come back one of these times."

"Stop. You're going to have me in tears if you keep it up," he laughed.

"Shut up. Here's two more magazines to go with it. Stuff the damned gun in your shorts, and please get the hell out of my sight. And get back here as soon as you can. Safe and sound if you would be so kind."

Joe did as he was told and headed for the door. Turning back for a moment, he paused and looked back at James. "James," he said.

"What?" James responded.

"I just wanted to say. . ." He pause another moment for dramatic effect. "I just wanted to say—that you spend too much time thinking about my shorts."

"Asshole," James responded. "Get out. Now!"

Again Joe did as he was told, and smiling broadly, exiting the building quickly and headed for his car. There was little that he enjoyed more than getting under James' skin.

Now, standing on a sun drenched ridge and maybe getting ready to actually go look for those three dead bodies, the big automatic was beginning to seem a lot smaller than it had that day at the office. And it didn't seem nearly so stupid either. Joe chuckled at the memory of that day. James was really a good friend. He wanted to get back there too. James had promised him a steak dinner at the best, and most expensive restaurant in town. And all the good stiff drinks he could hold to go along with it.

The faraway sound of truck doors slamming jarred him out of his reverie and brought the binoculars quickly to his eyes. Both of the Mexicans had started their trucks and were turning around to head back down the mountain. Soon the entrance to the mine would be empty and unguarded. This was his chance. If Joe were to get down there and quickly check it out before anyone had a chance to return, he was going to have to hurry. Tying the arms of his shirt around his waist and letting it dangle down over his backside to dry in the hot dry desert air, he slid down a short slope to reach the trail leading up to the other side of the mine.

Once on the rocky trail, Joe had to work hard to keep from twisting his ankles on the many small rocks and debris that turned under his hiking boots. It was going to be tough going, and the constantly sliding rocks were making a lot of noise. If he got too close to the mine and the men returned, it would be pretty hard to make a noiseless retreat back down the mountain. This was going to be a lot trickier and more dangerous than he had supposed back at the office with James.

Now in the full sun, Joe's bare torso quickly turned to a glistening expanse of moisture covered flesh, the sweat seeping out from under his arms and working its way down his back and stomach. Trying not to think about how good a long shower would feel right now, he kept his eyes and thoughts focused on the trail and the ever more quickly approaching mine entrance.

Finally the old mine road, now only a foot trail, leveled out and the going got a lot easier. With perhaps another three or four hundred yards to go before reaching the mine, Joe's stride picked up and again his mind began to wander to yesterday morning back at the hotel and waking up in bed next to Cindy. Cindy had been his girlfriend for several years now. Cynthia Matthews to be precise. Exactly two years older than Joe, it never failed to amaze him that she still found him interesting and desirable and wanting to be with him. She was after all, smarter and more sophisticated than he by far.

A drop-dead gorgeous little blue-eyed brunette with a trim but full figure and a lovely pair of breasts, she could have any guy she wanted, but morning after morning she was still there in their bed when he woke up and turned toward her. Working her way through college toward a veterinary degree, she had a common sense head on her shoulders second to none. She was the daughter of a no-nonsense New Mexican cattle rancher and no stranger to back-breaking labor. Her love of all God's creatures, great and small was legendary in the neighborhood cafe where she worked until late at night amassing tips for tuition, books and all many necessary items of her chosen career field. It was no easy life, with classes early in the morning and homework in the afternoon and evening. But then she didn't have a lazy bone in her body, and expected everyone, including him, to come up to that same level.

He had met her at that very same cafe on one of his many travels, and it was truly, as he always said, lust at first sight. That lust, while never cooling, quickly turned to flat-out respect and real love as he came to know and understand her on a deeper and more personal level. He had watched her rebuff cafe patrons who tried to hit on her with awesome efficiency and finality.

When he had finally worked up the nerve to speak to her, he was surprised and pleased to find his interest returned. She didn't shoot him down either when he finally asked her out, or when on the third date, he asked her back to his place for a nightcap after their dinner and movie. He had awoken beside her in bed the next morning and for countless mornings since then. Their mutual attraction and their love had never wavered, and the heat had never cooled. But it was much more than just the physical. Sure the sex was awesome he often reflected—but the intimacy was _stunning_.

Yesterday morning had been especially sweet. Joe had awoken beside her just as he always did, and just as he usually did, had an erection. Spooning her close to her back, he was surprised to find out she was fully awake. Generally Cindy slept in a little longer.

"Stop poking me in the back traveling man," she said, using one of her many cutesy nicknames for him. "Unless you're prepared to do something more than just snuggle."

He was. He grew larger as he reached around her body and cupped her breast with his hand. She turned over with a smile and taking him in her hand, expertly and meticulously aroused him to the point of climax, and then abruptly stopping with a giggle, rolled onto her back and drew her knees up high and apart. This was surprising. Cindy usually went for dark of night sex, rarely in the morning and rarely in full light.

"You on top cowboy," she said. Joe was happy to comply, rolling onto and into her, and pumping hard, despite his best efforts at restraint, was finished long before she was. He lay gasping beside her.

"Sorry Babe, but you have to accept partial responsibility for my poor performance," he said. "Just a little too rowdy with the foreplay on your part."

"No problem big guy," she replied. "I like you inside me. Trust me when I tell you that I was having a good time too." She rolled onto her side facing him and ran her hand up and down along the curve of his neck. She looked intently and directly into his eyes, and suddenly and without warning she grabbed and held the back of neck so firmly he couldn't look away.

"I've got something to tell you," she said. "First, I love you more than you could ever believe possible. Second, I know you love me back the same way. Yes, you tell me that all the time, but as a girl I know it in a way that goes beyond words. You are, always have been, and always will be my best friend. And if you tell me that I'm not your best friend too, or that you don't feel the same way toward me as I feel toward you—then simply put, you're a liar. Third, I don't give a shit about what you do for a living, or for a hobby, or whatever the hell it is you do, and I don't give a damn either about how dangerous or precarious it is or might be. I want your beautiful face to be the first thing I see each morning for the rest of my life. I want your equally beautiful body next to mine in this bed each and every night forever and beyond. I'm asking you to marry me, pure, plain and simple. Just like that. I want you to be my husband, and I'm asking to be your wife. No boyfriend/girlfriend crap. I want the real thing, and I want it all. Now—today if you had time, but I know you don't—so how about the day after tomorrow when you come home. How would you like that big guy? How would that do for you traveling man? Yes or no pal. Right here, right now. This is it."

She finally finished and took in a quick gulp of air. Her eyes never left his. Not for a second did she look away while she waited for a reply. The room was totally quiet. They could hear each other breathing. They could hear each other's hearts beating.

"Well, he replied slowly—if I could get a word in here edgewise—after telling you that you're breaking my neck, I'd say that that word would be . . . Yes. And ditto to you all the nice things you said to me. . ." He didn't get a chance to finish the sentence as she drew his face to hers and gave him a kiss like he had never had before, not ever after years of passionate kisses.

"Thank you, Trav. Thank you so much for being the man you are. Thank you for marrying us."

"Us?" he replied, with a fair amount of fake shock. He had suspected for a while.

"Yes us, dummy. I'm carrying your child." Tears were streaming down her face. They were not tears of sorrow.

After that they lay for hours in bed, naked and intertwined with each other, as they made precious plans for their marriage in three days, and for all the rest of their lives together. For more children, for homes, for a family. For a different line of work with less danger, less travel. They made plans for a life.

Finally, after several hours, he said they better get up soon. It would be time for him to go in the early afternoon. She suddenly reached down between his legs and stroked him gently. The effect was nearly instantaneous.

"One more time big guy. One more time before you go. One more time to remember you by—until you come back to me," she chanted.

"Top or bottom lady?" He asked.

"Don't you move an inch," she said. "You stay flat on your back young man. I want you just the way you look right now, which by the way, and I'm sure you already know—is perfect. This time you are not getting away so fast. This time we go slow. This time is just for the lady of the house."

His penis throbbed hard as it arched toward her approaching body.

"Climb aboard lady," he said.

She did.

Again Joe was shaken out of his daydream, as he realized that he had reached the entrance to the mine. Thinking about Cindy and that long and incredible last session with her had again produced the same effect in his reproductive organs, a rather obvious bulge forming in the crotch of his jeans. At least there was no one around to see. Funny he thought, how erections worked when a man is young. Never can predict when they would happen, why they might happen, or how long they would last.

Taking a quick look around the area and seeing no sign of life, he crossed the fifty or so feet of open area between himself and the entrance. He entered the mine silently and stopped just inside to give his eyes time to adjust to the dim light, most of which came from the opening behind him. A light cool breeze blew out of the shaft against his bare and sweaty torso. Joe now realized that he should have put his shirt back on. The evaporative cooling effect of the breeze was raising goose bumps on his flesh. After hours of nearly unbearable heat, now it was too cold. He also needed to be able to get to his pistol if necessary, and the dangling shirt was covering it. No time now he thought. Quick in and quick out. That's the ticket. He paused again at the entrance, peering into the darkness. He suddenly realized that unlike so many times before, this time he was more than just a little spooked. Something was not quite right here, but he didn't exactly know what it was. Whatever was causing it, it was creeping him out. Fear had always produced another effect on him. The bulge in his pants was not only staying where it was, but growing harder.

There was a little light shining down from an opening several feet above his head and to his front. Dimly in the light he saw the hole in the ground off to the right, exactly where James had told him it would be.

Joe reached into his back pocket and retrieved his small flashlight. He turned it on and quickly strode over to the vertical shaft where the bodies would be. He had expected an odor at this point, but except for the mustiness of the old mine, there was nothing. All he had to do was to confirm the presence of the bodies, see if there was anything in the area that might reveal their identity, quickly look over the main shaft to confirm the presence of the drugs the Mexicans were smuggling, and get out and back down the mountain. "Five minutes tops," James had said. "Three would be even better. These smugglers come and go pretty regularly," he said. "I want you out damned fast. Anything dicey you see, you move your ass out of there at about the speed of light. Shit, I don't know why I'm even letting you even do this one. It's too far out. It's too isolated."

"Don't worry," Joe had said. "No one will ever know I was there. They don't call me 'The Shadow' for nothing."

James shot him a withering look. He didn't have much of a sense of humor when it came to business. Come to think of it, Joe thought, James didn't have much of a sense of humor at other times either.

Joe reached the edge of the hole and for safety lay down flat on the ground next to it. He edged himself slightly forward and shone the flashlight beam down into it. At that moment he got the first of several surprises of the morning. The hole was only about ten or twelve feet deep, just as James had said it would be. He could, with his flashlight and the ambient light from above, easily see every square inch of the floor of that hole. There were absolutely no bodies in there whatsoever, dead, alive or otherwise. Absolutely nothing in there but loose rocks and dirt.

This was totally unexpected. This was one option that wasn't even on the table when James had briefed him several weeks before. According to James, there were absolutely going to be corpses in that hole. That was a confirmed fact. And it was also confirmed that they would be in there today. At this moment. At this time. Right now.

But they weren't.

Something was going wrong here, and Joe didn't like the smell of it even a little bit. Things were turning dicey fast, and he intended to do exactly what James had told him to do—shag his butt out of here. Rising up and turning to go, Joe caught a glimpse of a wooden door just slightly off to his right. Built at the entrance of another side shaft to the main shaft, this door was of rather heavy and solid wood. It also was latched with iron hardware and was completed with a massively built padlock. A padlock that against all odds dangled unlocked from the hasp.

This was all wrong. This indicated that the smugglers had not gone off far and would probably return rather quickly. Perhaps they had left the door unlocked by accident and would remember and return right away. Perhaps it meant that they were still very close in the area and had seen him arrive several minutes ago. He should get out _now_. But still—the lock was unlocked. Maybe they wouldn't remember too quickly and come right back. Maybe Joe still had time for a fast look inside that room.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Go for it kid, he thought. You are here. There's no coming back. At least confirm the presence of the drugs. Probably bales of leaf. Probably Columbian Gold. Maybe harder stuff. Bad stuff yes, but worth dying for? No, not even close. Get out now. Still, only a few seconds more to find out. Stop thinking jerk, and do SOMETHING, he thought.

In an instant he was across the rough floor and at the door. Two seconds more and he removed the lock. Five more seconds to pull back the heavy oak door. One more second as his flashlight came up and cast its light into the darkness inside the room. Five more seconds as Joe's eyes widened and his heart rate doubled at what he was looking at in that small room. From wall to wall the floor of the room was covered with guns of all types. Pistols in abundance, but far more than the various handguns were several crates of bright shiny fully automatic rifles. Their lids had been removed to allow the dry an Arizona heat to remove any trace of moisture that might have gotten inside during the transport of these weapons. The men who had left these weapons here with the lock unlocked surely didn't intend to go far. Joe wondered if they might have spotted him on his ridge across the canyon. Probably. More than likely even. Gun smugglers were the most dangerous criminals out there. He was going to have to hurry if he wanted to get out of here alive. Five more seconds as he pushed the heavy door shut. Two more second to place the lock back on the hasp as it had been. Joe dropped the lock in his haste. He started to pick it up but stopped. Too many seconds. Too many seconds make too many minutes. Too many minutes make one Joseph Chambers filled casket. Every hair on his body was standing up now and every nerve screaming GET OUT NOW!

Leaving the lock on the ground where it had landed, he turned and raced for the light at the entrance of the mine. As he burst out of the opening he was blinded for a moment by the brightness of the noontime Arizona sun after the darkness of the cave. First he heard the word "FREEZE" in English but with a heavy Spanish accent, and only then did make out the forms of two men standing twenty feet in front of him with their guns leveled and pointing directly at his chest.

"Amigo," one of the men said, again in a Spanish accent. "You will kindly raise your hands."

Joe did as he was told, and only then did he realize that while both of the men were staring at him, one was looking below his waist. Joe's companion of the morning, his engorged manhood, was still going strong and still very much in evidence pushing against the fabric of his denim jeans.

It probably wasn't a good time for his offbeat sense of humor to kick in, but like so many other things, it had been one of the curses and failings of his young life, and he couldn't resist spouting off.

"Gentlemen," he dead panned, "I believe you've caught me with more than my hands up."

Neither of the two smugglers smiled at the comment.

Joe was helpless. Standing stupidly with his hands in the air, he was in no position to go for his gun. The two smugglers had him covered, their automatic sub-machine guns aimed squarely at his torso. He wouldn't have had a chance, even if his shirt wasn't covering the pistol in the small of his back. He had tied the sleeves of the shirt tight too. He didn't want it to come off him on the hike up here. It wasn't about to come off him easily now either. The hammer on the .45 was also in a down position too. He had been worried about the stupid thing going off accidently if he had carried it with the hammer cocked and the safety on, as James had told him to. Even if he could have gotten to it, he still would have to thumb back the hammer, rather than just sweep off the safety, line-up on these two guys and fire before they reacted. Too long. Too much time. Again—too many seconds. If they wanted to kill him they could, right where he stood. He didn't stand a dog's chance in hell. He would be dead meat if they applied even a little too much pressure to those triggers under their fingers.

The smuggler on Joe's left continued to stare intently at Joe, but couldn't seem to take his eyes off Joe's crotch, and he literally began to lick his lips. In that moment, Joe saw that there just might be a small chance to live. Just a very, very small chance.

"Amigos," Joe said affably, trying to keep his voice steady and from rising in pitch, another habit he had when things weren't going well. "I'm really sorry I wandered into your camp. I'm just a geology student from Tucson out for a hike in the mountains. I saw your camp here and walked over to say hello. Didn't realize that it was going to look like I was out to steal from you. So, I was just getting ready to go, and that's when you caught me." The smugger on the right was smiling savagely. It was clear that he wanted to blow this kid away and be done with it. But the man on the left continued to stare at Joe's crotch. It was pretty clear what was on his mind, and Joe began to play on that. "Maybe I have something that you guys would like. Maybe I could trade something of mine for a free get out of jail card here. Come on guys, what do you say? How about if you just take a look at me and decide if we can have a little fun or not. After all, I'm more than willing. I love a good time. We can enjoy ourselves for a little while, and then I'll go my way. Come on, what do you say?"

The smuggler on the left took his right hand off his rifle and lowered it to his genital area. He slowly began to rub the area. It took no genius to know what he was thinking.

"Amigo," he said. You will take down your pants please." The smuggler next to him wore a pained expression on his face, but it was clear that he could wait for his partner to have a party. He probably had before, and he probably would also thoroughly enjoy the floor show before he blew this snot-nosed gringo kid into the next world. Why wouldn't he wait, Joe thought. The job was probably as boring as hell anyway.

"Go ahead," he said. Show my partner your stuff. "You do Pedro right, and we will let you walk out of here. If you don't give him a fine time, then. . ." He made a cut-throat gesture across his neck with a finger. With a finger that _had_ been on the trigger of a gun. Joe knew that he had no intention of letting him live. But now the smuggler had carelessly let the machine gun slant down so that it was pointed at the ground instead of Joe, almost a foot or two out in front of where Joe stood. Pedro had also somewhat lowered his gun. His attention was now completely on something else. It was clear to Joe that neither of them now considered him a threat. They were the cats, and he was the mouse, and they were intending to play with him—and none too gently at that.

This was Joe's moment. This would be the one and only chance he would have to live, and it would be a damned thin one at that. But it was a chance. Joe said a mental prayer and thank you to the man up above for giving him what quite a few people had told him were exceptionally good looks. He was a little over six feet tall with a decent but slender build, and carried himself well. He had been mistaken for an athlete on occasion and he had turned some heads in his life. Mostly female—but some guys too. That always amused Joe. He wasn't made that way himself, but people who were never bothered him much. Live and let live he always said. Live and let live. Like right now. Live old buddy Joe, he thought to himself. Concentrate. Make this fast. Make this smooth. This is it. Take your time in a hurry. Smooth like silk. No second chance pal. No do-overs. This is for all the marbles.

"I'll need to untie this shirt off so I can get my jeans off," he said. The smugglers nodded their assent. Slowly Joe lowered his hands and untied the sleeves of the shirt and let it drop to the ground. Then he slowly and tantalizingly unhooked the button at the top of his jeans, and with the flair of a burlesque strip-tease girl, equally slowly unzipped the zipper, still playing to his audience of one—Pedro. Pedro by now was practically drooling and had formed his own pants bulge. Joe then moved both hands to the rear portion of his waistband and began to push the fabric down over his buttocks, taking his dark blue boxer undershorts with it at the same time. This formed a cloth envelope for the big automatic pistol to follow the jeans down in, sandwiched as it was between the fabric of the jeans and the undershorts. The jeans caught for a moment on his still very erect penis, and when it pushed away, Joe's member sprang upward and over to one side with a slow languid wave in the air. It was no shorty. Joe breathed another thank you for that fact. Joe shot Pedro a sultry look with dark and heavy lidded bedroom eyes, and a little smile with parted lips that highlighted his almost perfect white teeth.

It had more than the desired effect, and Pedro gave a little moan and shambled toward Joe, his rifle now completely forgotten and dangling by its sling. Now Joe's jeans, shorts and pistol were about halfway down his thighs. He was completely naked from that point up. He remembered in his training that it was said that it is extremely difficult to fight effectively when naked. He understood that now. Not only naked and exposed, but the jeans tight around his legs were going to hamper his ability to move quickly. He was going to have to shoot it out from exactly the spot where he stood. He simply could not dart and move around like he would have liked to. It was not a good position to be in, but it was all he had.

Pedro had taken several steps toward Joe, and was now only about a dozen feet away. It was now or never. With his left hand Joe took hold of his own penis and gently waved it toward the smuggler while turning ever so slightly to his right to mask the movement of his right hand and said softly and sweetly, "Come and get it big boy. I've got something special for you. Something you're _really_ going to like." The two men's eyes were not focused anywhere but where Joe had intended, and with the mis-directional skill of a stage magician he quickly reached behind him with his right hand and down into his sagging jeans, and smoothly pulled the .45 from its holster, while at the same time thumbing back the hammer. Then, with no break in motion whatsoever, he quickly brought the pistol up and shot Pedro in the forehead precisely between the eyes.

The smuggler dropped like a sack of wet concrete, dead way before he reached the ground, a fist sized hole appearing in the back of his head. The second smuggler jerked back violently but reacted immediately, bringing up his rifle even as his eyes widened in panic and disbelief at the sudden turn of events.

Joe rattled off three more rounds toward the remaining smuggler, but they were not well aimed as he tried to pull his pants up with his left hand. Two of the bullets whizzed by the smuggler harmlessly, and the third plowed into the dirt just in front of the man's feet raising a puff of dust. It was enough however to throw off the smuggler's aim as well. He pulled the trigger hard and emptied about half of the thirty round magazine directly at Joe—or rather where Joe had been. Joe, still encumbered by his jeans wrapped around his thighs and unable to raise them, had simply dropped where he was and continued shooting up at the smuggler from the ground while the smuggler's bullets passed just over his body and into the hillside behind him. Concentrating on the front sight of his pistol and realizing that this next few shots were it, Joe pulled the trigger of the .45 four more times, until the slide locked back on an empty chamber. Foolishly, he had not brought the spares with him. Fired in haste and one handed, all had missed except the last, which had hit the smuggler squarely in the right arm just below the shoulder and caused the man to lower the rifle until it was left hanging harmlessly by his side as blood poured down his right side.

Joe could see the rage in the man's eyes for underestimating this gringo kid, but now he would have his revenge. His magazine was still half full of 9mm slugs, and the kid was clutching an empty pistol. Game over, the smuggler thought as he began to shift the rifle from his useless right arm to his left. All he had to do was lift the fairly light weight sub-machine gun on Joe, pull the trigger and watch this kid turn to blood mist and bone dust.

As the smuggler's gun came up, Joe could see that he only had a split-second to live. So with all the strength he could muster from his weak prone position, he hurled the empty pistol at the head of the smuggler. The smuggler ducked for a moment and came up shooting, but again Joe was not there. He was rolling, half naked and his pants still stubbornly clinging to his thighs, toward the dead man between them. The smuggler tried too late to correct his one-armed and weak handed aim, but could never quite catch up to Joe, as the 9mm slugs tore up the ground directly to the rear of the rolling man. Within seconds the sub-machine was also empty, as the smuggler, now roaring in rage, threw down the weapon, pulled a knife from his belt with his good left hand, and went after Joe.

Too Late.

By now Joe had rolled to and completely over the dead smuggler and his chest and back was smeared with the dead man's blood and brain matter. It didn't matter in the least to Joe, who in an instant came up with the dead man's rifle just as the smuggler with the knife lunged at him for the last time. A split second would determine which man lived. As life and death hung in the balance, and the moment took on an almost slow motion surrealistic quality, Joe brought the rifle up, and praying the dead man had taken off the weapon's safety, pulled the trigger and filled the smuggler's chest with lead while the man was still in midair. He like his partner, dropped like a rock, and also like his partner, without a twitch.

The fight over, it took a few seconds for the sound of gunfire to stop echoing down the canyons. The entire scene had a pallor of gun smoke and the smell of cordite and blood hanging over it. Joe, smeared with blood, brains, dirt and grime, and covered with dozens of tiny cuts from stone and mine debris, tossed the rifle aside and rose to his feet. While trying to get control of his breathing again, he finally was able to pull his pants and undershorts back up. Finally, he noted with a little amusement, his erection had totally disappeared. "Thanks little guy," he said nodding down at himself. "You saved my life today." Pants finally in place, he walked over to where he had dropped his shirt and put that back on too. Fully dressed and standing over two dead and horribly shot-apart men, the gravity of what had just happened finally began to sink in and Joe began to tremble and shake a little.

With the release of adrenalin, Joe began to wind down by talking to himself. "Well guy, I guess you're not such a bad gunfighter after all. Watch out Wyatt Earp. When it comes to gunplay in the buff, I guess I've got you beat." Joe still couldn't believe that many rounds had been fired directly at him from only a few feet away and, just like Wyatt in several gunfights, not one had touched him. He didn't have a scratch on him, except for the ones from the rocks he had rolled over.

"Unbelievable. Simply, completely, totally freaking unbelievable," he said. Looking skyward Joe chanted, "Thank you Dear God in heaven. Thank you Dear God for my life. Well, I better head back down the mountain, and get out of here as fast as I can. The car is about three miles down the road toward the Arivaca town site," Joe said, again talking to himself. "I'll have to contact James as fast as I can get back to Tucson and let him know that this assignment is now absolutely, completely, officially and totally screwed-up."

"What a day. Well Cindy love, I told you this would be my last dangerous assignment. And I promise you that it is. What a way to take it out." Joe stopped to pick up the empty automatic. He let down the slide and snapped the hammer on the empty chamber. No longer necessary, he simply stuck it in his waistband and started back toward the edge of the clearing intending to leave the same way he had come up.

That's when the first bullet hit him. For a second Joe didn't realize what had happened. He thought someone unseen had walked up behind him and punched him in the lower back. Instead, looking down he saw the watch pocket of his jeans blown out, and his gold watch, with its crystal smashed and a rounded edge blown away, dangling. It had been blown nearly out of his pocket and was about to drop to the ground. It was covered in bright red blood splatters and bits of meat. Instinctively he reached for it to keep it from falling out and was holding onto it when the second bullet plowed into his upper back and spun him nearly all the way around. Taking this in for a split-second as searing pain began to travel down his sides and into his legs, he realized he had been shot the first time in the lower back with the bullet exiting through his hip and the right watch pocket of his jeans. The second wound was higher, just below his shoulder blade. He wondered dully why he hadn't heard a gunshot either time and staggered trying to turn around to look behind him when the third bullet hit him squarely in the center of his chest and exited through his back with a bright spray of blood. Driven to his knees by the force of the blow and the pain, and incapable of further movement, all he could do was kneel in this position with heaving chest and try desperately to catch his breath.

As blood poured out of Joe's mouth and nose and ran down both his chest and back, his unseen assailant emerged from the brush to his right and walked up beside him. "You killed my compadres, you gringo bastard. Now you will find out how death feels as you join them in hell." The third unseen Mexican smuggler then walked around Joe and emptied his silenced 9mm pistol slowly and methodically into Joe's back and chest, enjoying the savage effect of each slug as his victims body jerked and shuddered with the impacts—and having carefully saved the last bullet for the head, placed the barrel nearly into Joe's ear and blew his brains out over a six foot square area. Joe fell face forward, dead as he hit the ground. His right leg gave a final spasm and jerk, then moved no more.

The smuggler looked around for a minute or so for the smallish shiny object he was sure he had seen his victim holding as he died, but finding nothing, he finally shrugged and walked away.

As the afternoon sun sank lower in the sky, the smuggler dragged all three bodies into the mine shaft and pushed their lifeless forms into the ten-foot deep vertical shaft. Then he loaded the crates of guns into the back of his pickup, and covering them carefully with a tarp, drove them down the mountain, bound for a new and safer hideaway.

The canyons became quiet again.

The Red-tailed hawk that had been circling over the scene for hours now grew tired and bored and finally flew away, looking for excitement elsewhere.
CHAPTER TWO

Eastside Community Center

Bellevue, Washington

Saturday – July 13, 2013

By the time the last squad car and ambulance screeched into the parking lot of The Eastside Community Center, most of the screaming had stopped, but the crying hadn't. Several small groups of teenagers clustered together near the entrance to the Center. Others had wandered near their cars. Most were trying to comfort and calm each other and the panicked younger kids since the shooting had finally ended. Most were calm. A few stifled tears. The shock and fear at having found themselves in an instant war zone shone on their faces. Almost magically long yellow strands of crime scene tape appeared around the trunks of trees and signposts as the police completed their work of cordoning off the area from the curious onlookers gathering from the nearby shopping mall. Some, simply curious, were drawn by the sound of gunfire and the inevitable sirens and flashing lights which followed. Others, mostly frantic parents, petitioned the surrounding officers for entrance to the area or information about their children. At eight o'clock in the evening on a Saturday summer night, the center had been busy, the basketball court and pool tables filled with kids left off while mom and dad did their shopping at the mall.

The door of the last police car opened and a large man slowly unfolded himself from the passenger seat. Dressed in a dark brown business suit, he contrasted sharply with the small sea of blue uniformed cops. At six foot two, he also stood above most of them. Running his hand over his forehead to brush back hair long gone, Chief of Police Howard J. Carter made his way past the onlookers and petitioners to a young officer who seemed to be, at least for the moment, in charge. The pulsating blue, red and yellow lights of the emergency vehicles lent the scene an unearthly element and glow. It didn't seem too much bother Chief Carter, who would have dryly noted that this was not his "first rodeo". Chief Carter, now fifty-nine and only a year away from retirement, had been with the Bellevue Police Department for only a few years, but his law enforcement experience ran back for decades, as had that of his late father.

"What have we got here officer?" Carter said hesitatingly as he reached the young man. He was unable to recall the name of the man, although he had seen him a number of times around headquarters. He was handling himself well despite the fact that before today, Carter would have guessed that the most action this officer had seen was at a few drunken traffic stops. Mass shootings were most certainly not the standard fare of Bellevue Washington—a traditionally tiny bedroom community to nearby Seattle for most of its history. Corporate giant Microsoft had changed all that of course, and of late the large, upscale and ever growing town was becoming susceptible to all the big city problems of twenty-first century life in America.

"Officer Blake sir. Ronald Blake." Looking up into the somewhat hawk-like eyes of Chief Carter, Blake stammered a bit. He had never spoken to the big man before this moment and didn't want to make a fool of himself now. Again, Chief Carter brushed his grey and thinning crew-cut out of his eyes, a habit from his youth and middle age, no longer necessary. His hand paused there a moment to scratch the top of his head and give the younger man a second to regroup.

"Damnedest thing I've ever seen, Chief Carter. According to about two dozen witnesses, a guy dressed in dark clothing pulls in here in a large black or dark blue pickup truck, drives to the far end of the parking lot, stops for a minute, gets out, walks around for another minute or so, then pulls a high powered assault rifle out of the truck and opens up on the Center. He probably cranked off two or three dozen rounds or so—and here's the weird part. He's got to be the world's worst shot. He didn't hit a single solitary soul. Not one. Every injury that we have so far is from flying glass, debris and people falling over each other trying to get the hell out of the line of fire. Nobody was hit."

Chief Carter let out the breath he didn't realized he'd been holding. "Wow. Talk about some good luck." Visions of the Sandy Hook school shooting in Connecticut the year before had been playing in his mind, and a community center full of dead children was the last thing on earth he or his little town needed. "Guess we can put away the body bags. Thank God."

"Not so fast," a voice called from the gathering darkness. "We've got one over here".

"Shit," said Carter. Chief Carter considered himself a Christian man, and tried to not cuss too much. He was fairly successful at it too, until he was angry or under stress. He moved toward the sound of the voice. In the steadily increasing darkness, he could just make out a small group of officers near a tree, a couple of trash cans and a sign that simply read "Emergency Assembly Point."

Carter and Blake walked toward the sound of the voices.

"Long way from the center. Must have got it in the back trying to get out here I'll bet," Carter said to his lead homicide investigator, Detective John Addams. Addams was fairly new to the department, but was an able man, and a good hire for Carter. He was a devoted husband and father, and that counted for a lot with the Chief. "How the hell did you get here so fast anyhow Addams?"

"Just blind dumb luck Chief. The wife and I were at the mall shopping for a birthday present for my daughter Kelli. Heard the shooting and ran over here. Don't run quite as fast as I used to and the perp was long gone by the time I got on the scene. We got a good description of the truck though, and an APB out at once. We got half a chance of catching up to this lunatic if the wind keeps blowing at our backs and we hold our mouths just right." Addams always added a little "color" to his commentaries. Sometimes the color could even be repeated in mixed company.

"I doubt it," said Carter. Five minutes from here and he's on I-90 and long gone. We won't see that truck again soon I'll wager."

"Did you get the present?"

"The what?" Addams asked.

"The present for Kelli."

"No," Addams responded. "Kelli's sweet sixteenth will remain gift less. At least for another day or two."

"Kelli won't mind," Carter said. "She's a trooper. Been a cop's kid for quite a long time now, hasn't she?"

"Yep, she sure has. Disappointment runs rampant in police families."

"So who's dead?" Carter asked.

"A girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Caucasian. Blond. Probably from a bottle. No idea on height or weight at this time."

"Shot running away?"

"Not shot at all, from what I can tell," Addams said.

"Come again?"

"I said, from what I can tell, and that's not that much at this point, this girl most certainly didn't die from a bullet. And further, she didn't die here tonight either. She was dead when she got here."

"Oh boy," said Carter, "nothing is ever easy, is it? Better show me."

Addams moved a few feet taking Carter with him, to a large-sized canvas duffle bag laying somewhat lopsidedly near the tree. Even in the increasing darkness, Carter could plainly see the dark stains covering the sides and bottom of the bag, stains he at once recognized as thick and slowing congealing blood. Addams bent over the bag and with gloved hands, carefully pulled open the unzipped sides to reveal the contents. Office Blake, who had tagged along unbidden behind Carter, gurgled slightly as he stifled an involuntary gag.

"Shit," Carter said again.

"Yeah," replied Addams. "Been dead at least a day or two from what I can see right now. Worked over pretty good too before she died. Lots of burns and cuts. She didn't go easy. The perp then basically hacked apart her body, either to make it fit in the duffle, or just for the pure hell of it. Axe or chainsaw probably. Nice guy. Lots of neat toys. For a monster."

"Any missing teenage girl reports lately?" Carter asked Blake, now recovered and standing at the Chief's side.

"None that I know of Sir, at least not locally."

Carter turned to Addams. "Well, let's get her down to the ME's office and see what else we can find. Blake, get a few of the men searching for bullets holes that we can dig some slugs out of, and comb the entire area for anything, and I mean anything that looks suspicious. Let's get the crowd control officers working on getting the kids reunited with their parents. I want this entire area fenced off and locked-down until further notice. Start taking witness statements. Nobody and nothing gets in or out until I give the word. Got it?" Carter barked.

"Got it Chief," said Blake as he hurried off to carry out Carter's orders.

Carter was about to turn away and head back to his patrol car when the voice of Addams called out to him once again from the deepening shadows.

"Chief Carter—come back here for a second and take a look at this. I don't know what I've got here, but it's as weird as hell."

"What's going on Addams?"

"I was just about to zip this bag up when my flashlight beam caught something. You can see where the girls head has cut off from her neck. It is still hanging on by a thread or two. He didn't do a real good job on that. Probably in a hurry. Anyway, just below the ragged cut in her throat, you can see a fairly large round black object sticking in her trachea. I don't want to move it around a lot out here in the field, but it looks like there could be some sort of symbol on that ball. What the hell is it anyway?"

Carter's eyes bore into the bag and the flashlight beam. "Don't mess with it Addams," Carter said. "No need. I know exactly what it is. I've seen it a few times before, and I was hoping I'd never see it again. I know this guy. I know who killed this kid."

Addams stopped what he was doing with the corpse and stood up beside Carter. "Who?"

"Well I can't give you his name and address, but I sure as hell can give you his moniker. What you are looking at in that girl's throat is a pool ball—specifically the eight-ball. The killer is the "Eight-Ball Killer" that operated on the east side of the state about a dozen or so years ago. He killed maybe ten or twelve girls, just about like the one you're looking at. Didn't chop them up quite so much back then. That's new. He liked stuffing eight-balls down their throats. Sometimes post-mortem, and sometimes 'pre'. The damned ball was the cause of death in several of them."

"I never heard of The Eight-Ball Killer," Addams said.

"Not surprising," Carter replied. "The pool balls were the one thing we kept back from the public, so we could separate the real killer from the loonies that like to confess to anything. But you must remember a string of hacked up girls around Spokane about twelve years ago. It was quite a news story for a couple of years."

"Yeah, I guess I do at that. Never caught?" Addams asked.

"Never captured. But we sure in the hell thought he was dead. I was working the case with a hot-shot young homicide detective by the name of Johnny O'Brien. Johnny was really good at what he did, and that was getting inside the heads of creeps like this guy. Johnny and I ran the guy down into an old derelict Spokane warehouse building after Johnny figured out where this animal was going to hit next. Never did get a close look at his face, but O'Brien put a couple of slugs into him. The killer himself started the fire in the building that did him in, probably to create a diversion to cover his escape. He didn't know that the building owner had been storing about a ton of propane in that building, and that one of the cylinders was a leaker. Brother did it ever go up in a ball. Burned him to a crisp, and I mean a real well-done crisp. There was nothing left but a pile of bones and teeth far too degraded for DNA testing, such as it was back then. Johnny and I figured he was dead. The killings stopped. End of story, or so we thought."

"Whatever happened to this Detective O'Brien?" Addams asked.

"Oh, he's still around—right here as a matter of fact. Lives like a country squire out on Mercer Island now. A sort of 'Lord of the Manor'. A widower. Not a detective anymore, and for that matter not even a cop. The eight-ball killer also put a round into O'Brien. The slug just nicked one of Johnny's ribs, but it was a hollow-point and a piece of the metal jacket penetrated far enough into Johnny's lower back to end up pushed against his spinal cord. His legs went out from under him and I had to end up carrying his ugly butt out of that building. The bum never even did thank me for it either. They dug the shrapnel out at the hospital and he got the use of his legs back. The wound was not enough to put Johnny in a wheelchair, but was enough to retire him off the force at the ripe old age of about thirty. He could never pass the police physical after that, because when he had to run more than about fifty feet or so, his slightly bruised spinal cord would seize up and his legs would go out from under him again. Now days he writes crime novels, and lectures at the University occasionally right here in Seattle. Sells the books too. He's plenty wealthy".

"Lectures on what?" asked Addams.

"He's a creative writing professor, God help us all. Word also has it that he occasionally dabbles in cold cases as well—strictly advisory. Once a cop always a cop I guess. Only private clients now of course."

"Johnny really had a gift for BS," Carter continued, "and an incredibly bad attitude to go along with it. You look up the word 'arrogant' in the dictionary and there's a picture of Johnny. He was a handsome devil in his youth and really appealed to women. He fancied himself a 'ladies' man'," Carter said dryly. "Always liked a beautiful woman on his arm. His wife Janis died a few years ago of cancer. I'm surprised he never remarried."

"He must have really loved her," Addams said.

"Yeah, I guess he really must have," Carter replied. "Jan was an easy woman to love. I know—I was once married to her too."

That remark hung in the air for several seconds as Addams frantically tried to think of something to say to change the subject.

"Was he really that good?" Addams asked lamely. He quickly added, "At solving cases I mean."

"Yeah, he was really that good," Carter responded with one eyebrow slightly raised. "Incredibly good. I'll give the devil that. He sure could get inside a killer's head—he sure could," Carter repeated. "He may have missed his true calling by not becoming a serial killer himself."

"Doesn't sound like he was one of your favorite sidekicks," Addams said with a grin.

"No, I guess not. If there was ever a bigger butt-hole to work with than that man, I don't know who it would be. He had a head about as big as a VW bus, and a mouth twice that. Luckiest day of my life the last time I had to talk to him. We didn't exactly part old buddies either," Carter reminisced with a smile. "Last thing I ever said to him was that if I ever saw him again, I was going to kill him."

"Well Chief Carter," Addams said with a grin, "We've got a hacked apart dead girl here with a pool ball rammed down her windpipe, a shot-up community center nearly full of children, and a city that is gonna be in a near total panic by tomorrow morning when all this hits the papers and television."

"And if that's not enough," Carter picked up, "We also have a ripper-style serial killer apparently back from the dead. One thing about the old eight-baller—he didn't use a high-powered assault rifle back then. He's really upped the ante, and to tell you the truth, I'm pretty sure he's not that bad a shot either. I think what he did here tonight was to leave us his calling card. And on the back of that card he pretty clearly wrote 'I'm back' in great big scarlet letters."

"So what's he after?" Addams asked. "What's in that bag over there is a pretty big calling card."

"Oh, he's after O'Brien, no doubt about that—and me. Looks like he's followed us here."

"So what's next Chief? Where do you go from here? You're the one that's going to have this bull by the horns."

"What else?" Carter said dryly as he walked away into the darkness. "I'm going to call Johnny."
CHAPTER THREE

Mercer Island

Seattle, Washington

Sunday – July 14, 2012

From somewhere far off in the distance I could hear a bell ringing, although the dull throbbing drum-beat in my head was mostly drowning out the sound. In the dark bedroom there was no way to tell direction, even the most basic ones, such as up and down and right and left. Trying unsuccessfully to right myself and rise from the bed, I was beginning to experience the unhappy effects of rolling seasickness. Adding that to the monster hangover I already had was definitely not a very good idea, so I settled back on the bed in an effort to let my heaving equilibrium stabilize.

Only then did I finally recognize the sound as being that of my cell phone ringing on the night stand next to the bed. With one hand I tried to reach it, only to knock it completely off and behind the nightstand. Stretching out further to try to retrieve the damned thing, I fell out of bed and onto the floor. At least now I had something firm under me, and the rolling mostly stopped. Good thing that whoever was calling apparently had a lot of patience.

Finally I got the phone in my hand, and sitting on the floor next to the nightstand punched the talk button.

"O'Brien," I snapped into the phone. "Who are you and what the hell do you want? It's the middle of the night for God's sake."

The voice on the other end of the line floated out of the darkness and into my ear.

"It's Carter. Howard Carter. How you doing Johnny? By the way, it's 10:30 in the morning."

I lowered the phone and took a look around me. Pitch blackness everywhere. Except a small sliver of light poking around the heavy blackout curtains hanging from both bedroom windows. It looked by the brightness of that sliver that it was a sunny day.

"Oh, I guess it is at that," I snapped again. "But then you always were pretty good at correcting me weren't you—you oversized and overstuffed sack of dog crap. Fine by the way. How the hell are you Carter?"

"I've had better days Johnny. And that was even before I had to pick up the phone and give your sorry ass a call, you pathetic little drunken sot."

Convinced by the exchange that it actually was Howard Carter on the line, I ventured a question. "So Howie baby—to what do I owe the somewhat questionable 'pleasure' of speaking with you this morning—after what, ten years or so?"

"Twelve actually Johnny, and you're right, I always did love to correct you, and to pretty much jerk you around and make you feel like an asshole. I would have been really happy if it had been another fifty years or so, but the fact of the matter is that I need you to do something for me."

"Oh, so it wasn't just my overactive imagination after all. You really didn't like me very much, did you Howie?"

"No, and I still don't, make no mistake about that. I said that I needed you—I didn't say that I liked you. I probably wouldn't stop to piss on you if you were on fire."

"Fair enough," I answered. "Now—just what the hell can little old drunken and gimpy ex-cop Johnny O'Brien do for the high and mighty Bellevue Chief of Police Howie Carter?"

"You can get your sorry drunken ass out of bed, climb into your flashy, pretentious and over-priced fire engine red Porsche convertible and drive over to the Eastside Community Center in Bellevue. It's by the big mall off 156th. You do know where that is, don't you?"

"I know where it is. How the hell do you know the color of my damned car?"

"Well, I am a cop you know Johnny, and I do know how to read. And you do manage to get yourself in the news from time to time. But then you always did crave the limelight—deserved or not, didn't you? And by the way, don't call me Howie again, you arrogant, over-rated, pumped-up and self-aggrandizing little ego-maniacal Irish dip-shit, or I might just punch your lights out when you get here."

I was beginning to enjoy the conversation. "You don't sound nearly as peeved as you did the last time we spoke Carter. That time you said you'd kill me."

"I still might Johnny. . ." he said and hesitated a little. " _After_ this is over."

Listening to the sudden change in his tone, I got a little more sober, and a lot more serious.

"Refresh my memory Carter. Why am I doing this?"

"Because the eight-baller's back," Carter said.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes," I replied, and turned off the phone.
CHAPTER FOUR

Eastside Community Center

Bellevue, Washington

Sunday – July 14, 2013

"You're late," Chief Carter said as I pulled up next to him in the parking lot of the community center at about a quarter to twelve. "And you look like hell," he added. He was standing with a group of Officers that were combing the area, apparently looking for evidence. What kind of evidence I could only suspect at this point. Since I was severely outnumbered, I decided to keep my witty repartee to myself.

"Good morning again Howard," I cheerfully offered. "Just like old times, isn't it?"

His only response, other than a short 'huff' was to say, "Over here O'Brien."

Leaving the Porsche parked where I had stopped it, I got out and followed him toward the Community Center building. Getting a good look at it for the first time, I drew in my breath a little. Even knowing the old eight-baller as well as I did, the amount of damage inflicted to the front of that building was a total surprise.

"Over forty slugs in the building," he said. "And we're still counting."

"They look big," I said.

"They are," he replied. "Thirty caliber. Not the piddly-assed little two twenty threes we were expecting. This is heavy artillery. Long range sniper rounds in a semi-auto assault rifle. They could drop a moose in its tracks. Doesn't get much more deadly than that."

"A new wrinkle for our buddy," I said. " _If_ this is our boy."

Carter shot me a sour look. "Do you think for a minute I'd have called you if I wasn't sure?"

"No, I don't suppose you would. We haven't exactly stayed on each other's Christmas card lists have we?"

He didn't dignify that remark with a reply.

"Old eighty left a few shreds of dead girl in a suitcase over there by that tree, traditional calling card inserted into her trachea. Presumably after he cut her head off. It was in there pretty deep to have gone in her mouth.

"Complete decapitation?" I said. "That's new too."

"Who says an old dog can't learn new tricks?" he replied.

"Any ID on the girl," I asked.

"Not yet. Chances are she's a runaway from down toward Portland," he said. "We get a lot from there. Probably picked her up off the interstate."

"Raped?" I asked.

"Doesn't look like it at this point. Autopsy has just started."

"Same M.O. there anyway," I said.

"Howard, refresh my memory. How many people knew about the eight-balls?"

"Me, you and probably three or four others. All people I trust." he replied. "I doubt it's a copycat. Looks like he's pulled up stakes in Spokane and set up shop here. Why not? We did."

"Why now, all these years later?" I wondered.

"Who knows," Carter answered. "Maybe in prison on some other beef. Maybe he went into retirement, but came out because he was getting hungry again."

"Maybe he was hurt badly enough that night that he's been out of commission for a while. That's a possibility. And what about the body in the building?" I added.

"That's a lot of maybes. First, I figure the pile of bones they found after the fire came from a bum that was either in there drunk and passed out, or one that old eighty found in there and killed as he went in. Then he might have started the fire intentionally to leave us a corpse as he went out the back. All that propane was just a bonus."

I thought it over. "Possible," I said, but that's moving pretty damned fast and efficiently for a man with a couple of bullets in him. Not only did he have to get out the back, but also had to evade about a hundred and fifty or so cops that were surrounding the building."

"All those cops didn't get there at one time," Carter speculated. "It was pretty thin there for a while after you and he had your little exchange."

"Our little exchange, as you so quaintly put it, still wakes me up in the middle of the night sometimes."

"How are your legs, Johnny?"

"About the same—even after all these years. They work fine for a while and then just go out on me for no damned apparent reason," I answered.

"Can you still move fast when you need to?" Carter asked.

"Depends on what's chasing me," I quipped. "How about you old man?"

Carter winched a little. "Depends on what's chasing me too Johnny," he said. "Depends on what's chasing me too."

"Why now Howard?" I wondered again. "Why here."

"Because this is where we are," Carter mused. "You know Johnny, if he had wanted to he could have run up a hell of a body count at this Center last night. Take a good look at the pattern of bullet holes in that building. Not one below about eight or nine feet. He didn't care to be bothered or have us distracted by a lot of senseless killing. He came here to leave us a message and he didn't want it to be a confused one. That message is that he's back, and that this is _personal_. This is about you and me."

"Why the girl then?" I asked.

"For the eight-ball," Carter said. "No other reason. Sure he could have put it in a box with a love note and mailed it to us, but what fun would that be? He doesn't want us to think he's softened up any over the years. He's still as dangerous as a rattlesnake."

"More," I quickly added. "A rattlesnake's behavior I can pretty well predict."

"You were pretty good at predicting his too back then," Carter said. "You damned sure knew where he was going to hit that last night. "Want to try it again? Where do think old eighty is this morning? Right now."

"Well, I think his vehicle is abandoned somewhere right around Bellevue. Probably stolen to begin with. Your guys will find it pretty soon. As for eighty himself, he's holed up not too far off, planning his next move. Might try the Holiday Inn," I speculated.

"And that move is?" Carter asked, pursing his lips a little in mild annoyance.

"Your guess is as good as mine," I laughed. "I forgot to bring my tea leaves with me."

Carter laughed a little too then. "So are you in?"

"Sure," I replied. "I'd as soon catch it in another blaze of glory with you, than a bullet in the back of the head while I'm sleeping. But you know that. You knew it before you even picked up the phone this morning."

"I did," he confessed. "You will be working directly with me. Since you aren't a cop anymore, you will be only an 'advisor' to the Department. One small point Johnny. Until this is over—no sauce. Not a drop. Okay?"

"What sauce?" I asked innocently.

"Good enough," he replied. "You've never told me a lie before that I know of. Let's get started."

Carter indicated that I should follow him as he made his way across the parking lot to his car. This morning he had chosen his own personal automobile as opposed to a patrol car, since he had come straight to the Center from home rather than stopping off at headquarters. It was a nice black Escalade SUV. Not bad for a former beat cop and gumshoe.

"Still raking in the graft I see Carter," I quipped.

"Funny," he replied. "Let's see if you're still laughing this time next week. You still carry that pop-gun you had over in Spokane?" Carter asked.

"I still have my little .38 snub if that's what you mean, but I don't carry it anymore. It now resides comfortably in retirement at home in my nightstand drawer".

"Why not?" he pressed. "Washington State allows civilians to carry concealed guns".

"Well, to tell you the truth Carter, I don't really have that much call to gun people down in the streets anymore. Now days I kill off all the bad guys with the delete button on my word processor."

"Yeah," Carter said dryly. "That's just about what I thought. What's the deal with the books anyway?"

"They pay the bills and keep a little gas in the Porsche," I said. "A cop's early disability pension doesn't amount to too many shekels a month you know. Last year I wrote two novels in the Jack McGuire series. One of them is already having a screenplay written for it as we speak. In addition to keeping the lights on in the old mansion, they also keep me in expensive booze, loose woman, pricey cigars, illicit drugs and various other 'cultural' pursuits that have absolutely no socially redeeming value whatsoever. In addition, I spent three of the last twelve months vacationing in Europe, and getting laid with amazing regularity. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that kind of sounds like a successful career to me."

He huffed again. "What did Jan think of your career?" Carter asked.

I hesitated for several seconds before I answered him truthfully. "She didn't like it very much, Howard. I guess you probably know that. But when the end came for her, she didn't have to depend on a cop's piss poor health insurance for what she needed. She had the very best care that money could buy. Top drawer buddy, right down the line."

"Did any of that fancy care make any difference?"

"Hell no Howard. Not a bit. All of the money in the world wouldn't have make a damned bit of difference."

"How did she die Johnny?"

"She died hard Howard. I won't lie to you on that one either. She died bloody hard. The morphine they pumped into her didn't begin to touch her pain."

"Were you with her at the end?"

"I was with her. She died with her hand in mine, and her head resting on my chest."

"Thanks Johnny," Howard said. "Thank you for that."

Howard quickly turned away, and reaching into the Escalade and under the driver's seat pulled out a big black semi-automatic handgun. Nearly scared the crap out of me as I thought for a split-second that he was finally making good on his old threat. Instead of shooting me however, he turned it around butt forward and handed it to me saying, "Here Johnny, try this on for size and see if you can get your little girl hands around it."

I could. It was a sweet little G-22 jet black forty caliber Glock automatic pistol with a laser beam sight installed in the handgrip. Simply pressing lightly on that grip made a red dot appear on the target. Howard informed me that within about fifty feet or so, those big forty Cal slugs would go in just exactly where the laser dot appeared. He also handed me a Galco leather belt holster with a waist band clip installed in the back of it to allow the rig to be used as an inside the pants holster as well. Two fully loaded magazines were stuck into their respective pouches on the other side of the holster. They were high capacity magazines too, fifteen rounds each. Together with the mag in the pistol and the round in the chamber, I was holding forty-six hollow pointed bad boys, ready to rock. This was quite a set-up and I was impressed.

"Now you can get off the porch and run with the big dogs Johnny," he said.

"Didn't know standard issue was this good in Bellevue."

"Standard issue hell. This is my own gun. I'm loaning it to you."

"Why Howard—and I thought you didn't care".

"I don't," he said. "But the next damned time you put a bullet into old eighty, I sure in the hell want him to know that he's been hit by something. I want him going down _now_ , and I don't give two hoots in hell if he ever gets back up again or not. Do you think you can handle that belt gun without blowing your nuts off?"

"Well I'll give it my best shot _Pardner_ ," I said, giving what was my best John Wayne impression. I confess it wasn't too hot. I had held the big auto up and at arm's-length as I sighted down the barrel toward a couple of trash cans lined up at the end of the parking lot, making the red dot appear on their sides.

"Slow down Annie Oakley," he said, pushing my arm back down. "That thing is loaded and ready to go. I would prefer to have Bellevue shot-up only once in two days if you please."

Clipping the gun and holster to the outside of my trousers felt pretty uncomfortable as my pants sagged precipitously, but I was able to adjust my jacket enough to cover any obvious bulge.

"You know," I said, "I've never really liked automatics all that much. Always been a revolver man."

"So what do you want hotshot?" Carter said. "Six rounds in a revolver and another six or maybe twelve in slow as shit re-loaders on your belt, or the near full box of slugs that are in your hand right now, going straight at Mr. Billiard man as fast as you can pull the trigger."

"You make a good point Kemosabe," I replied.

"You can get some practice in tomorrow at Wade's," Howard said, referring to the big gun shop and range in Bellevue. "All the local cops use Wade's. Maybe they can show you how to hit the side of a barn from the inside with the door closed."

"Maybe they can," I replied dourly. "Miracles do occur."

"What about a vest?" Carter asked.

"Never Howard. You know how I feel about those. Too cumbersome. I want to be able to move my ass if I need to."

"One would have saved you a broken rib and a bum spine, twelve years ago," he said.

"Maybe. But I'll still go it without, if it's all the same to you."

Howard shrugged away his indifference. "I wear one nearly every day of my life," he said. "Got one on now. But it's your own choice."

"So what's next Sundance?" I asked, and was rewarded with another Howard Carter pained expression.

"Over there. In the retirement center. It's right next to the building that old eighty shot-up. From up on the fourth floor you can get a pretty good view of the parking lot below. I understand there are a couple of witnesses up there that might have got a good look at our man. I've been saving the interview with them until you were here to tag along."

"I'm touched Howard." Want me to ask some questions too, or just stand at the back of the room playing pocket-pool and keeping my mouth shut?"

"Ask away Johnny. Ask away. You are now officially part of this investigation. Remember, you're not writing pulp fiction now. This is the real thing. Since you stand a good chance of getting your damned fool head blown off at just about any moment, you might at least try to take all of this a little seriously."

"Got it," I said seriously. "Let's go."

As we started off down the sidewalk toward the retirement home, I slipped my arm up and over Howard's shoulder while quoting (in my best Bogie) "you know, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

Howard shook off my arm and said "Shut up—or I might shoot you yet."

I did.

The somewhat euphemistically named Golden Age Retirement and Assisted Living Care Center was indeed close to the scene of the shooting. Exactly on the other side of the parking lot from the Eastside Community Center, it loomed tall and large over the area with what I could see would be a nice view from the top floor. I always wondered why they gave facilities such as these those sort of names. Better to tell the truth I thought, and name them something like GOD'S WAITING ROOM or CIRCLING THE DRAIN Care Center. One of my buddies in Bellevue, Larry the fish guy, had in his youth actually worked in some of these places. He said that at some of the worst ones the company slogan should have been. . . "The blank and blank Health Care Center, where we don't actually care for you, and where we actually don't care that we actually don't care for you." Neat guy Larry. Sarcastic son of a bitch—but funny as hell. Funny forgives a lot, I always say. The actual sign out front, while stating the name of the place, also informed visitors that it was additionally a dementia care facility. That part of the building was located on the fourth floor, and that was where Howard and I were now headed.

Emerging from the elevator and walking over to the reception desk on the fourth floor, we were greeted by a petite and very pretty little blond nurse named Mary Hayes. It was obvious that she had been informed that we were coming and was expecting us. Mary was the Care Coordinator for the entire fourth floor dementia unit, which consisted of twenty-six patients or residents, as they preferred to be called, at the moment. She was all smiles as she held out her hand and greeted us.

"Good afternoon," she said, looking us both over and sizing us up. "It's Detective Carter, isn't it?" she ventured.

Howard, always a schmuck for a pretty face, smiled broadly and said "Chief Carter actually." Nodding toward me, he said "and this is Detective O'Brien."

Five minutes on the job and already I had been promoted.

"I understand you would like to speak with the Devons, Chief Carter?" she said. "Is that right?"

"It is if they are the people that witnessed the shooting last night from the fourth floor balcony," Carter replied. "A couple of my men who were canvassing the building for potential witnesses this morning said Mr. Devon might have been up there at the time."

"I believe he was," Mary said. "He and his wife were visiting her mother, Mrs. Nyles. I understand that he had gone out onto the balcony for some air. It was a very warm evening. All of that shooting must have really scared the residents. I wasn't here at the time, but got a phone call at home shortly after. Do you have any idea who might have done such a crazy thing as shoot up a building full of kids Chief Carter? It's a wonder and a miracle he didn't manage to kill someone. And right here in Bellevue!" she huffed.

"No idea at all right now Ms. Hayes," Carter replied. "That's why we're here."

"Of course Chief Carter. Follow me if you would. The Devons have been here all night to comfort her mother and make her feel safer. And please call me Mary."

"Thank you Mary," Carter said as she turned and started down a hallway. Mary moved her hips like she had done it before and it wasn't a bad view, and I was glad to see that Howard still wasn't too old to appreciate it. Carter whispered an aside to me as soon as Mary was out of earshot, "We're keeping the dead girl quiet right now Johnny," and started after Mary.

"Dead people usually are, aren't they?" I replied, and after taking a second to once more enjoy the pained expression on Howard's face, joined the procession in the hallway, which ended at room number 461. The name on the door was Mrs. Mildred Nyles.

Mary explained to us that Mrs. Nyles was a fairly new resident and that her dementia wasn't all that bad as of yet. "She has some very lucid moments," Mary explained. "Trouble is that you never know when those moments are going to be. All in all however, she is probably in the best shape mentally of any of our residents."

Mary knocked discreetly at the door, and a robust male voice answered, "Come in."

Room 461 was rather small, but it was a corner room and I noticed that one of the two windows also looked out toward the community center parking lot. Perhaps the two ladies might have noticed something as well as Mr. Devon, who was actually out on the fourth floor balcony at the time of the shooting.

Mrs. Nyles' possessions seemed to consist of a single poster bed covered with a quilt that appeared to be so old that perhaps her own mother might have made it. There was also an equally ancient looking highboy dresser and nightstand. The only modern appointments were a big flat screen television set and very high-tech DVD player. Apparently Mrs. Nyles enjoyed her entertainment.

Making our way into the room, a fit and trim looking sixty-five or so year old Mr. John Devon greeted us with a firm handshake, and we made our introductions. Turned out that Mr. Devon was an ex-marine. Tough and hard as nails, he had spent his entire career after leaving the service in private corporate security. He was trained to note details, had a solid head on his shoulders, seemed to be afraid of nothing and was used to taking command. I had a feeling he was going to make an excellent witness.

I was right.

"Wish I had been on the ground floor instead of up there where I was. I would have been able to take the son of a bitch out," Devon stated with conviction. "Punk asshole kids like that are a dime a dozen. If I could have tackled him from behind, he would have folded like a cheap accordion."

"So you got a pretty good look at him then, Mr. Devon?" Carter asked.

"Yeah Chief. There was still quite a bit of light left in the sky, and even though he was dressed in dark clothing and was on the other side of the trees, I could still make him out real well."

"Why don't you just tell us exactly what happened sir, in your own words," Carter said.

"Let's go out to the balcony, and I'll show you exactly where I was," Devon suggested.

"Good idea," Carter agreed.

Reaching the balcony, Devon walked across to a spot almost directly above where the dead girl had been found.

"Thanks Chief. Better to talk out here away from the ladies."

"Of course," Carter said. "We would have wanted to see this spot anyhow. Please go on Mr. Devon."

"Well, me and the misses were here to visit her mother," he explained. We try to get over here at least a couple of times a week, and more or less always on Saturday nights. Mildred still loves her movies and we try to bring one of her favorites from the past. She can't manage the player anymore, so we have to do that for her."

"The movie of the week this time was _Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte_ ," he went on. "Mildred always loves that one. I think she more or less identifies with the Bette Davis character Charlotte. Everyone thought she was a crazy old trout, but of course she was crazy like a fox and ends up killing all the bad guys and walking away sane and free of the past." Devon went on, "but I've seen it about a million times, so just after it started I excused myself and went out on to the balcony for a little air. It was a beautiful evening, just starting to cool down a little after a hot afternoon."

"The first thing that caught my attention was the big black truck pulling into the parking lot. It must have a pretty good-sized engine in it because it rumbled a little. Don't hear that a lot with the little green puddle jumpers everyone up here seems to drive now."

"Was it black or dark blue, as far as you could tell Mr. Devon?" Carter asked.

"Black as nearly as I could tell, but I couldn't be one hundred percent sure. Please call me John, Chief Carter."

"John it is then," Carter responded.

Devon went on. "He pulled to the rear of the parking lot, well off the pavement and up a little onto the grass. I could see that plainly from where I was. My view of the back end of the truck was blocked by a tree branch, but I knew that he went to the back of the truck and opened it because I could hear the latches open and the tailgate squeak a little as it went down. I could also hear the sound of something heavy being dragged out of the truck. He was almost directly below me and I could hear everything that he was doing very well.

"He walked toward a little tree at the end of the lot, and walked kind of funny, like someone does when they are carrying something heavy. He seemed to have a large duffle bag or something like that. After putting it down, he returned to the truck, closed the tailgate and then opened the passenger side door. That was the door of the truck that was facing away from the Center. Since he was at the front of the truck again, I could pretty plainly see what he was doing. He removed something from behind the seat and closed the door again. Then he moved halfway back on the truck and rested what he had taken from the truck on one of the side panels. That's when he opened up on the Center. I didn't have an idea in the world what he had taken out of the truck until then. I didn't know it was a rifle. Being black, it was just too hard to make out in the semi-darkness," he lamented.

"Wouldn't have been much you could have done about it anyhow John," Carter said.

"I guess not," Devon replied. "Sure would have liked to have had a try at it though."

"Did you ever get a good look at the man's face," I interjected, trying to move the story along a little.

"Sure did," he replied. "The shooting only lasted about half a minute or so. Man it was crazy with all that lead flying and glass breaking and all those kids in and around the center screaming their lungs out. Total bedlam. It was a big heavy caliber gun I could tell. It really boomed.

"As soon as he was done shooting, he calmly puts the gun back behind the seat, walks around to the other side of the truck to get back in the driver's seat, but before he does, he stops for three or four seconds and looks up, right exactly to where I was standing. We were staring right into each other's eyes. It seemed like he almost wanted me to be able to see him. I'm telling you Chief Carter, it kind of creeped me out a little, and I don't shake too easy," Devon finished.

"What then," Carter prodded.

"Then he jumped in his truck and peeled out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell. That's what happened next Chief Carter, and that's the last I saw of him. I ran back to the room to make sure everyone was alright there. My wife Liz was almost hanging off the ceiling, she had jumped up out of her chair so far. Mildred on the other hand, was still glued to pretty much the same spot, still watching her movie," Devon smiled a little at that. "Maybe dementia isn't always so bad after all."

"I'd like you to come down to headquarters and let a sketch artist see if he can duplicate that face you saw John," Carter said. "Today if you can manage it."

"No problem Chief. I'll be there anytime you want me."

"Thanks John. Your cooperation is making this all a lot easier. If you would, please give us a brief description of the man right now. I know you've had experience doing this, so just tell us in your own words what he looked like to you, as best you can."

"Sure thing," Devon replied. "About five foot eight, or maybe ten, no taller than that. White guy. Burly. Broad-chested. Kind of 'squat' like a bodybuilder or a weightlifter. I'd say he has spent a lot of time at the gym. For that kind of build though, he moved fast and easily. No limp or other oddity of movement, except when he was carrying that heavy load to the tree. Hair was either dark blond or light brown. I could see it plainly when he looked up. It was basically a crew-cut, but one that had grown out a little. Square-shaped face. He looked to be around twenty-five years old. No older than that I would say."

I shot Carter a quick look on that one and he did the same to me, but neither of us said anything.

"That's about it," Devon said. "Anything else you can think of Chief?"

"Not right at the moment John, but here is my number if you think of anything else," he said, fishing a card out of his pocket."

"By the way," John asked. "What was in that bag that was so damned heavy, Chief?"

"Gym clothes, John," Howard lied, protecting the information. "And a couple of sets of barbells. Seems our man takes the gym with him where ever he goes."

We returned to room 461, and Carter asked Mrs. Devon if she might have seen or heard anything to add to John's story. She said she couldn't. After shaking hands all around again, we were just getting ready to walk out the door when the soft somewhat reedy voice of Mrs. Nyles came to us.

"The movie was just starting," she said. "You know, the part where the killer is stalking that nasty John Mayhew out in the summer house while the party is going on up at the mansion. He was played by Bruce Dern. Never liked that actor much. He always played such mean people."

This was obviously one of Mildred's lucid moments. Carter and I both stopped short to listen to what she had to say.

"Well, while Mr. high and mighty cheating John Mayhew is waiting to get his hand and head chopped off with a meat cleaver, the Dixie-land band in the background, up at the main house, is playing a tune. That's just when the shooting started Mr. Carter," she said. "And do you know what they were playing? They were playing 'Careless Love'. Now don't that beat all?" she finished.

Howard and I stood silent for a moment on that one. There didn't seem to be much to add to that. We thanked Mildred and Mr. and Mrs. Devon, and started down the hall for the elevator.

The doors had hardly closed when I opened my mouth to speak, but Carter held up his hand to hush me.

"Outside," he said. I shook my head in agreement.

As the big double doors of the building closed behind us, Carter was the first to speak. "Well it looks like we've got a new kid in town. Our man would be a hell of a lot older than twenty-five."

"No shit," I replied. "I've seen old eighty up close and personal, and absolutely none of that description matches. What's going on here Howard? Copycat after all?"

"Maybe—but I'm having a hard time with that. He uses the same damned pool balls, his M.O. is pretty much like the original. He comes right here to our backyard to start up again. This is a weird one."

"Twelve years ago I would estimate the eight baller's age to be around forty-five or so. That's make him about fifty-seven now," I said.

"He's got a trainee," Carter said, a light-bulb going off in his head. "An apprentice."

"It's been known to happen," I agreed. "Argues for him being in prison, doesn't it?"

"It does indeed," Carter nodded. "And that's right where we're going to start looking. Care to join me at Headquarters Johnny? It's shaping up to be a long afternoon at the computer."

"Why not? It will give my hangover a chance to settle down a little more. You buying lunch?"

"Yeah money bags, I'm buying lunch. Some things never change, do they?

"Some things never do," I grinned. "Your car or mine?"

"Mine. You would never be able to pry me back out of your little tin can of a car."

As we walked down the sidewalk toward the parking lot, a police cruiser was just making a long slow turn into the other end of the lot. I could plainly see "City of Redmond Police Department" on the side of the car. "Redmond?" I said. "What do you suppose they want?"

"Dunno," Howard answered. "But we're all in this together. Maybe they know something we don't. I better talk to the Officer before we go. It'll just take a minute."

"I'll just tag along if you don't mind Howard," I said. "After all, we _are_ partners again."

"Don't push it glamour boy," Carter responded.

The Redmond police car had now come to a stop at the end of the walkway, and the officer was patiently waiting for us as he looked down at something on the seat. As we neared the car, he turned his head toward us and gave a broad smile. As he did, the hackles at the back of my neck began to rise and I stopped. There was something just not quite right about the square faced officer with his sunglasses. Something just didn't quite "click." Howard began to speak to the man behind the wheel while he continued to amble forward. . . Directly into the rising muzzle of the officer's pistol.

Time froze for a split-second as I heard the two quick shots and saw the big muzzle flash of the gun.
CHAPTER FIVE

Redmond, Washington

Sunday – July 14, 2013

The coppery smell of slowly drying blood began to fill the interior of the patrol car as it made its way westbound on highway 520 toward Bellevue. It had been so easy to kill the Redmond police officer and take her car. Child's play really. The man behind the wheel needed a greater challenge, and it lay just ahead. If all went well, his business here would be finished by 2PM and he would be on his way home victorious, by three. He had begun to think of it all as a game of chess. He had set up all the moves so far, and so far he was several moves ahead. One or two more and he would have his checkmate and be done.

It was amazing just how close these stupid shit for brains cops would let you get if they believed you were one of them, the man thought as he pulled the Crown Victoria off the entrance ramp and merged into the light Sunday morning traffic. A dime store police badge, a uniform and a set of dark glasses and not a soul questioned him wherever he went. He had walked right up to Officer Gladys Henley as she sat in her patrol car in a city park eating a fast food burger and coke. She had barely gotten the words "How can I help you Officer?" out before he had stuck his five inch boot knife into the side of her neck neatly severing her carotid artery.

It was fun to watch her flop and jerk in her death throes. It was _exciting._ He could hardly wait to see old man Carter do the same in about twenty or thirty minutes. And after Carter, that little pig-shit O'Brien. The man didn't mind the smears of blood Officer Henley left on the driver's seat as he manhandled her lifeless corpse into the back. This car was a single-use only vehicle, he dryly noted. His body shook slightly as he gave what passed for a laugh, although no sound escaped his mouth. It was not his way.

His body shook again a little with pleasure as he eased himself into the car and behind the steering wheel. It aroused him to feel the still warm stickiness of his victim's blood. It made him feel firmly in control, and for him control was everything _._ But most of all, it made him feel _invulnerable._ He was now totally in command. This day belonged to him. Nothing, and nobody could touch him and for sure no one could stop him.

As the man turned the patrol car off the 520 and headed down 156th again toward the Community Center, he once more let his right hand wander to the holstered Sig Sauer model 226 pistol strapped to his side, stroking it gently like the breast of a woman. It was fully loaded with his own homemade ammo—each of his seven different magazines holding twelve full metal jacketed and pointed armor piercing .357 Sig. caliber bullets over a maximum charge of fast burning gunpowder. No hollow points today. These little babies will waltz through anything, the man thought as he replayed in his mind how good it was going to feel to walk right up to Carter, and watch the expression on his face turn to one of horror as he pulled his pistol and filled the old bastard's face and chest with burning hot lead.

After he killed Carter, he would simply turn, kill any other cops in his way and quickly step back into the patrol car and speed once again out of the Community Center and into the parking lot of the next door mall. There he would peel off the cheesy badge, police cap and blue shirt, exposing his undershirt—a simple dark blue tee, the same as many of the other men in the mall would be wearing. The dark and blood stained trousers would come off next, in the men's room of the mall, revealing his plain khaki shorts. The dark glasses and his light weight Kevlar bullet-proof vest he would keep until he was well out of the area. It was always better to escape on foot. So simple, so quiet, so cool. Blend in and blend away. Like smoke.

Once across 156th, he would relieve another motorist of his vehicle with a knife thrust through the neck, and then race for Mercer Island and Johnny O'Brien. That worthless sack of shit would be dead probably before he even arose for the day. Unlike the Carter killing, he would be inside O'Brien's house, and there would be no one there to interfere. He would take his time visiting with O'Brien. He would be artistic—like a sculptor with his clay. No fear—the authorities would still be able to identify O'Brien by his fingerprints the man thought, his body again shaking soundlessly in mirth.

Only a few more minutes now. The big four story retirement center was already coming into view. The man knew that Carter would be right next door with his men, searching for clues. He intended to give them some.

As his car came around the end of the drive and into the parking lot, he was pleasantly surprised to see _both_ of his intended targets exit the front of the retirement center and start down the walk toward his approaching car. Amazing. Now he wouldn't have to make that trip to Mercer after all. It was a shame to have to give up working over O'Brien slowly and lovingly, but getting both of the bastards at the same time was just too good to pass up. He should have known that the old fool Carter would have called O'Brien right away. Carter never could take a piss without O'Brien there to hold his dick. He would settle this old score right here and now and be home a little sooner than he had thought. Home to his own cozy environment, and his own snug little workroom. Once there, he would set up shop again and finish the work that he had begun last week, the work that he had been born to do. Spokane had it easy for the past twelve years he thought. But that was about to change soon. He hoped the city had a big supply of body bags, because they were going to need them.

It was almost funny how both of the men were walking to their death, chatting away with each other as though nothing in the world was wrong. Only a few more seconds left to live, suckers.

The man thought with amusement that both of them were literally going to fall into his lap as he pulled up at the end of the walkway, blocking their path. He wouldn't even have to get out of the car to kill them. He looked down and checked his supply of magazines as he pulled his pistol from its holster. At the last moment he looked up and smiled toward them both. O'Brien for some reason was stopping a few feet back, but Carter kept coming and was almost to the car's window. They were now several feet apart, but no matter. His gun had more than enough reach for both of them.

Just like Gladys Henley before him, Carter asked the same question. "How can I help you Officer?" It would be the last words the old bastard would ever speak the man mused for a second, as he raised his pistol and fired two quick rounds directly into the chest of Chief Carter.
CHAPTER SIX

To Officer Linh Zhou of the Bellevue Police Department, it had already been a long day even before the City of Redmond patrol car appeared on the scene. Up and awake since dawn, she had been called to come in for an earlier shift and help with the gathering of evidence at the scene of last night's shooting. At first there had been about a dozen police officers and crime lab techs at the Community Center, taking photographs and cataloging bullet strikes and so on, but now had dwindled to only four, the rest having gone off shift or out to lunch, to return in an hour or so for another round of drudgery police work.

It came with the territory, and was a portion of the dues paying that was part and parcel of working one's way up in a city police department. And up was exactly where Officer Zhou wanted to go. She was the daughter of hard working Asian American parents, who had come to America and then Washington State with every expectation of working their butts off in search of the American dream. They expected nothing less of their daughter. They had largely attained that dream as well, owning not only their own home, but a smallish gas station and convenience store right in the busy heart of downtown Bellevue.

Linh's parents had expressed no dismay when upon graduation from High School she had announced her intention to become a city cop while she attended college classes in Police Science. Both of them considered public service in whatever form to be a high honor, and they could not have been happier with their daughter's decision. They had also been more than happy to help Linh financially during those first few tough years as a police cadet and student. That was after all what families did, they would cheerfully say. Knowing their daughter as well as they did, they had absolutely no doubt that she would one day become exactly what she wanted to be, and that was the head of the department by age forty. Now twenty three, Officer Zhou felt that she was on her way, although on days like today, being stuck out in the field and far from the action, it didn't necessarily feel that way.

Standing outside the front entrance of the Eastside Community Center Officer Zhou was astounded like everyone else at the amount of damage done to the building the night before. The shooter had done a very effective job of expressing his rage. And rage it must be, Linh thought. Why else would anyone do such a thing? It made no sense whatsoever. Officer Zhou, like almost all of the rest of the Police Department, did not know about the dead girl in the duffle bag. Chief Carter had the Medical Examiner's Office send over their special team to go over the area where they had found the body in the early hours of Sunday morning, well before the other Officers had arrived to begin their job of scouring the area for additional evidence.

Linh was taking a break at the moment and sipping an ice cold diet coke from the cooler in the back of the canteen wagon. Although she was still very young and slight of build, it was hard on her back stooping over for hours searching the ground for anything that might be out of place or look unusual. It felt good to be able to stand up straight for a while and work the kinks out.

She noticed the Redmond Police car pulling into the next door retirement center parking lot just a few seconds after seeing Chief of Police Howard Carter emerge from the building and start walking down the walkway toward the lot. Although she was about fifty yards or so away, Chief Carter was a tall man and he was easy to spot. She did not know the somewhat shorter and younger man walking with Carter, but they seemed to be engaged in deep and serious conversation. She liked Carter a lot. From her very first day on the job he had been very friendly to her, encouraging her in her career development. Always very proper, he never tried to hit on her in any way, and did not sexually objectify her as some of the other male Officers did. Linh Zhou was after all, very attractive—tiny, but with some curves that went places. There was absolutely no way to disguise that fact. That, along with the fact that it was well known that she did not have a boyfriend either in the department or out, sometimes created a little friction with some of her co-workers. She had learned to deflect it with a bit of humor. When that wasn't enough, her equally well known third-degree black belt degree in Judo didn't hurt either. None of the male Officers seemed very interested in testing her and finding out if she could make them "eat pavement" or not.

She was still standing in that same spot when Carter and his companion reached the end of the walkway and Carter approached the squad car to speak to the driver. Officer Zhou jumped visibly and dropped her can of soda when the sharp crack of two quick shots reached her ears along with the very large muzzle flash of a weapon being fired at the two men by the Redmond cop. She could see Carter stagger back from the force of the blows while the door of the squad car began to open. Instinctively and quickly Officer Zhou glanced down at her holstered pistol and just as quickly yanked it while trying to shift her mind into another gear and get her feet moving. When those feet finally did start to move she looked up again at the scene in front of her and was surprised to see that both Carter and his companion had totally disappeared from view and the confused shooter policeman, now completely out of his car, looking all around trying see where they had gone. Confused now herself, Officer Zhou hesitated a few moments, her mind furiously trying to process the events of the past few seconds. Finally she saw the shooter looking down into the heavy foliage and plantings along the walkway and begin to point his pistol into it and at the ground. That's when Officer Zhou broke into a dead headlong run, directly into the sound of new, fast and furious shooting.

The heavy set man with the square face inside the police cruiser smiled savagely as he watched the impact of his bullets going into Howard Carter's chest. O'Brien, now several feet behind the Chief and standing staring stupidly as Carter flailed away at the air and began to fall backwards. Now all the man had to do was calmly exit the police car, deliver two quick shots to O'Brien and finish them both off while they lay helpless on the sidewalk. He was vaguely aware of one or two other cops in the area of the Center. One appeared to be a little female. No worries there he thought. If she or the others tried to interfere he would simply kill them with a couple of fast and well placed rounds. Frankly, he expected little if any resistance from these yokel keystone cops. Police in small towns such as Bellevue were never hardboiled fighters.

Now completely out of the car he turned his attention back to his two victims and was shocked to discover that neither of them were still in front of him. O'Brien had reacted much faster than the man would have thought possible and had plowed headlong into Carter's side and bulldozed Carter and himself completely over a massively built concrete park bench situated along the edge of the walkway. There they had both tumbled into a heavily planted garden area between the walkway and the front of the building. That really had to have hurt, the man thought smiling to himself again, but it would do no good. O'Brien had only bought a few seconds more of life, as there was no place whatsoever for him and Carter to go. Carter would be armed he knew, but probably not O'Brien. He doubted that Carter had enough fight left in him after taking those two heavy loads to jerk a gun anyhow. So all the man had to do was peer carefully into the foliage and bushes to catch a bit of movement from the two men, and then fill that area with lead. Game over and checkmate.

As the squat and burly shooter looked over the edge of the concrete bench, a flutter of slight movement and light appeared on his chest, and his fake police badge reflected the sudden appearance of a red dot directly over his heart. Before the man could even register his astonishment at this turn of events, three quick shots rang out and three .40 caliber bullets plowed into the center of the shooter's vest almost one on top of another as O'Brien sprang up and out of the bushes a good ten or twelve feet from where the shooter had thought he was. Moreover, instead of simply standing and shooting from where he was, O'Brien was walking rapidly out onto the sidewalk again and blasting away as he came, his right arm straight out and his left bent as he cradled his pistol in a perfect gunfighter's stance. If the man had not been falling back from the force of the three slugs he had already taken, he might have been shot to pieces by now by O'Brien, who seemed intent on turning his semi-auto pistol into a machine gun.

The shooter raised his own gun to fire back at O'Brien, but as he did, one of O'Brien's bullets grazed the right wrist of the shooter and traveled up the length of his arm to his elbow, plowing a quarter inch deep furrow into the shooter's arm for almost a dozen inches. The shooter dropped his pistol with a yelp and turned now panicked toward the police cruiser still parked behind him with its engine running and dove head first into the vehicle, reaching up with his left hand to throw the car into gear and slamming his injured right hand onto the accelerator to propel the car forward and to safety. As the police car lurched forward blindly, O'Brien calmly ejected his nearly spent magazine and rammed another fifteen rounder home and began firing at the retreating automobile. Shards of breaking window glass flew everywhere as the rear window of the car simply disappeared. O'Brien further peppered the rear trunk area both rupturing the gas tank and flattening one of the rear tires.

Now out of ammo again, O'Brien ejected his second empty magazine and was ramming his third and last into the gun when Officer Zhou passed him on the right running full tilt after the police car. She caught it too, as she leaped onto the shot-up trunk area and was trying to bring her own pistol around and shoot the driver, now finally in an upright position behind the wheel, in the back of the head. Linh came within a fraction of a second of doing just that too as the car shot over two curbs and onto the busy street of 156th Avenue and back out again. Officer Zhou lost her grip and was thrown off the car and into the street. She rolled furiously for several feet and when she stopped was still trying to bring her pistol to bear on the disappearing police car, now a virtual rolling junkyard. Before she could crank off a poorly aimed and potentially dangerous round at the fleeing car however, O'Brien reached her side and pushed her arm down.

O'Brien quickly looked her over and deciding that she was going to be okay, told her to get an ambulance for Carter back in the bushes at the retirement home, and he followed the now smoking police cruiser into the parking lot of the mall. A few seconds later the vehicle burst into flames in a massive fireball. Fortunately this happened when the car was still far back in the parking lot and not near any other vehicles or persons. The shooter had exited the smoking vehicle just before it went up in the blast, and O'Brien could see him running flat out for his life toward the rear entrance to the shopping mall, screaming at shoppers in the lot that he was a Police Officer and to get out of his way.

O'Brien had to be careful at this point because to any of the shoppers in the area, he would appear to be a crazed man in civilian clothes with a drawn gun chasing a uniformed cop into the mall building. Anyone of them that happened to be armed might choose to get involved and blow him away thinking he was doing a favor to the cops and to the community. So Johnny returned his pistol to his waistband holster and carefully covered it with his jacket before slowing his pace and walking into the mall with what he hoped was an air of calmness. It wouldn't do to panic the Sunday afternoon shoppers at this point. He wanted to catch up to his man and finish him now, but he also didn't want to turn this crowded shopping mall into a killing field.

It was very calm in the mall as it was tightly closed against the heat of the day and the air conditioning was on full blast. It did not seem as though anyone on the inside of the mall had heard either the shots fired outside or the loud whoosh of the police car going up in flames, as they continued strolling about the mall and peering into storefront windows. O'Brien could just now begin to hear police and ambulance sirens approaching in the distance, returning once again to the same scene of so much gunplay over the past twenty-four hours.

Working first one side of the mall and then the other, Johnny zig-zagged and quickly glanced from side to side trying to catch a glimpse of the phony cop among the crowd. He was only too aware of the fact that while he had to keep his pistol concealed the shooter did not. Johnny was also aware that the shooter would open up on him in a split-second if he spotted Johnny first, while he would be a second or two slower getting his pistol back into action from down under his jacket.

Finally, as Johnny approached one of the four main entrances into the mall near the restrooms he noticed several drops of blood on the light tile floor of the entranceway. This was the entrance that opened onto Northeast 8th Street and the large Michael's craft store. Quickly exiting the mall at this point he was not far outside when he heard the piercing scream of a woman shopper several rows of cars away. Johnny raced toward the sound, gun drawn again. But it was not needed. Lying dead on her back on the concrete of the parking lot was a shopper with a vicious knife wound to the side of her neck. Her blood ran across the parking space and was smeared at two points by tire tread marks of her car backing out of the space.

As Johnny looked up a light blue passenger car screeched out of the mall lot and headed east on NE 8th. It happened far too quickly for Johnny to even be able to get a make and model description of the departing car. Defeated for the moment, Johnny again holstered his pistol and fishing his cell phone out of his jacket pocket called in a quick report to the police on the latest victim of the crazed gunman and began his trek back to the retirement home where once again a gathering of flashing red and blue lights dominated the scene. As he made his way back he passed the still smoldering remains of the Redmond police car, the fire having been largely put out by the Bellevue Fire Department. Inside the cruiser's back seat the partial remains of Gladys Henley would soon be discovered. Inside the mall restroom would be found torn and bloody police uniform clothing and the hastily ripped off Kevlar vest of the shooter with three slugs still imbedded in the chest area and once again, two western Washington cities would be plunged into disorder, panic and mourning.

And it wasn't even two in the afternoon yet.
CHAPTER SEVEN

Golden Age Retirement Center

Bellevue, Washington

Sunday Afternoon – July 14, 2013

I arrived back at the Golden Age Retirement Home just in time to see Howard being loaded into the back of an ambulance. I was happy to note that the sheet was not covering his face. I quickly looked around the area of the shooting and finding the shooter's discarded pistol laying off the side of the walkway near some shrubs, stooped to pick it up. It was a nice looking Sig Sauer with nine shots left in the magazine that was still in the gun. The shooter had not been kind enough to leave a spare. No matter I thought. Wade's would have more, along with a generous supply of new ammo. Noting the armor-piercing ammo in the magazine, it was easy to understand why Howard's vest had done him no good. I figured that the police already had enough clues on this guy, so I stuck the gun in my pocket thinking it might come in handy later. I was just in time too as one of the Bellevue cops that seemed to be in charge walked up to me and asked my name. I thought I was going to be in for another firefight, this time a verbal one with the local constabulary.

"O'Brien," I said. "Johnny O'Brien."

Instead of trying to place me in cuffs however, the Officer introduced himself as Lead Homicide Detective John Addams, and asked me what I wanted to do next.

"How should I know," I answered, "You're in charge."

Detective Addams then gave me another in a series of surprises that I had already received that morning and informed me that before they loaded the very much alive and conscious Howard Carter in the ambulance, he had informed Addams of my appointment to Lead Investigator and the fact that I would now be in charge of the case.

Seemed that Howard had gotten me again.

"But I'm not even a cop anymore," I said, still trying to escape.

"You are now," Addams said. "Howard just re-hired you. Cheer up buddy. You're back in the big bucks again. You can pick up your first paycheck a week from Friday—if you're still alive then," he added with a grin.

I've always been a sucker for a cop with a good sense of humor. "Well, Howard and I were just about to spend the afternoon at headquarters looking for our guy in prison records. We figure he may have picked up an apprentice along the way. I'd like you and a couple of your men to stay on that. Howard tell you much about our boy?" I asked.

"I know about the pool-balls, if that's what you mean," Addams replied. "I spent the morning catching up on the case from the old files. Not all of them have been digitized yet of course."

"Good," I replied. "Then I won't have to spend a lot of time bringing you up to speed. Where's Howard going?" I asked. "Overlake?"

"Yup," Addams said.

"Okay. Let's trade cell phone numbers. I'm on my way to Overlake. I'll call as soon as I have anything. You do the same. Sound good?" I ventured. I hadn't been in charge of anything for a long time.

"Sounds good," he said. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a Bellevue Police badge and ID with my name on it and handed the card to me.

Looking it over, I said that I didn't think Addams had made it in the last five minutes.

"Not quite," he said. Howard had it made this morning and delivered to him here. They were in his pocket when he was shot. He handed them to me himself and told me to give them to you.

"Howard tell you much about him and me?" I asked.

"Plenty," Addams answered. "But I'll tell you what," he said, "if you're good enough for Howard Carter, you're good enough for me. No questions asked. You need a right-hand man, I'm it. Howard knew you were going to come back and help us nail this guy before he ever left here last night. It looks to me like you damned near did just that this afternoon too. And probably you saved Howard's life in the bargain. Seems you and he are about even in that department now.

I raised an eyebrow on that one and Addams continued.

"I know about the shootout and fire at the warehouse building in Spokane," he said. "I know about the wound you took, and I know Howard carried you out. And from talking to a couple of the witnesses here this afternoon, I'm pretty damned sure, just like you are that this is a completely different person. What doesn't feel quite right is the 'apprentice' angle. It's all too personal. He's not that interested in killing children right now. He's hunting you and Howard. The whole thing here last night was just to bring the two of you together in one spot so he could gun you down. He nearly pulled it off too. Got Carter and missed you by a cat's whisker."

"Anyway," Addams continued, handing me the badge, "You're going to need these to get into the hospital with that belt-gun Howard gave you." Pausing for a second he added, "And the other one in your right pocket."

I started to say something but he waved me silent.

"Don't worry about it," he said, "We've got all we're going to get already. No prints anywhere. Not a surprise there. Won't be any on that pistol either. Thanks to you we do have plenty of DNA. The boys over at the mall tell me he was leaking blood pretty good in the men's room. We'll be able to match him up real well when we get a corpse. And make no mistake O'Brien, a corpse is exactly what I want. This freak is way too dangerous to screw around trying to make an arrest. You see him again, you blow him away. Shoot off one of his balls for me if you would please be so kind. And you use _both_ of those guns to do it. Got it friend?" he concluded.

"Got it," I said, watching him turn and walk away. I was starting to think that I was going to like Detective Addams. Turning my attention to the parking lot and my car, I noticed the paramedics at work on someone sitting on the back bumper of one of the ambulances. I also noticed that she was sitting mighty pretty too, as I made my way over to find out just who this little human cannonball was.

"That was quite a stunt you pulled," I said, extending my hand and adding—"Officer. . . ?"

"Zhou. Linh Zhou. And I might not have bothered if I'd known you were going to have things under control as well as you did," she said, shaking my hand.

I laughed. "If that's what passes for 'control' here in Bellevue, I'd hate to see it on a really bad day."

She laughed then too, even though I could see it hurt her. "You gonna be okay Officer Zhou?" I asked.

"Yeah, sure. Except for maybe a couple of cracked ribs, possible dislocated shoulder and about five hundred cuts, bruises, scrapes and lacerations."

"All in a day's work," I cracked.

"All in," she replied, hurting herself again by laughing. "You have me at a disadvantage."

"Oh," I said, "forgive me. The name's O'Brien. Johnny O'Brien. They've been telling me I'm in charge around here, although I'm pretty sure at any moment they are going to discover that Carter meant some other Johnny O'Brien."

Officer Zhou's eyes widened at the name. "You," she stammered, "you're Chief Carter's friend. The one that writes the crime novels. You write the Jack McGuire books!"

"Guilty on all counts," I confessed, a little amused. "I'm not quite sure how close a friend Howard would consider me though. So are you a onetime reader, or a fan of the series Officer Zhou?"

"I've read everything you've written," she said. "And if you don't think Chief Carter is a friend of yours, you might be interested to know that he loaned them all to me from his personal library."

"Now that does surprise me," I said. "And I'm getting to an age when not that much does anymore." More than just a little curious I asked, "What exactly did Howard have to say about me anyway?"

"He called you a puffed-up little blowhard of a washed-up cop and a mediocre potboiler writer."

I could tell that Officer Zhou didn't pull her punches any more than Carter did.

"He also said that you were absolutely fearless and the finest damned homicide detective that he had ever seen in his life, and that if he had to walk through the gates of Hell to arrest Satan with just one bullet and just one man, you'd be the one he'd want to be with him. From what I saw here thirty minutes ago Mr. O'Brien, I'd say that was a pretty straight-on assessment."

"Please call me Johnny," I said. "All my friends do." I probed a little deeper. "How about Officer Zhou? What's your assessment—of the writing that is? Sometimes even I think mediocre is a pretty big compliment."

"Please call me Linh, Johnny," she said. "All _my_ friends do." And if you think your writing is in any way, shape or form mediocre you need to have your head examined." She looked me squarely in the eye and said, "But you know that already don't you? A lack of self-confidence is not one of the biggest hurdles you've have to overcome in your life, is it?

I laughed once more. "Guilty again," I said. "Linh, I'm on my way to the hospital to see how Carter's doing right now. Would you care to join me?"

"Yes I would," she answered, trying to stand up but falling back with a thunk.

"Sorry," one of the paramedics interjected. "This lady is going to get a ride home and about two or three days of complete bed rest. We're still not too sure about concussion."

"Why not the hospital?" I asked.

"Because she won't go, that's why," he answered.

"Well, I could arrest her and haul her in," I said, although I was beginning to doubt that even in her weakened state that would be a very easy task.

"Tell you what," I volunteered instead, "Give me your cell phone number and I'll call you as soon as I have a report on Howard. Good enough?"

"I don't need the hospital, but I sure do need that report. Here's my number," she said, handing me a card. "You won't forget, will you Johnny?" she asked.

"Lady, there might be a lot of things in this world I'm likely to forget, but you are most definitely not one of them." I tested her by adding a wink.

She simply responded with a smile and mouthed a silent thank you, as the paramedics helped her up and over to another police officer for her ride home.

Classy. This gal is a keeper, I thought, as I headed over to my car for the short drive to Overlake Hospital.
CHAPTER EIGHT

Overlake Hospital

Bellevue, Washington

Sunday Afternoon – July 14, 2013

As I wheeled The Porsche into the circle drive at Overlake Hospital Emergency Room and up in front of the big double entrance doors, I could see the young valet guy hot-footing it over me at about the speed of sound.

"Hey buddy," he said, "no parking here. You're gonna have to put it in the south tower garage."

"Try again kid," I replied with a smile, flashing my brand-new Bellevue Police Department badge.

"Oh, sorry sir. Just leave it right here, and I'll take care of it for you."

I did so, and walked into the emergency room with a little bit of smugness. Rank has its privilege I thought, and it had been a long time since I'd flashed a badge at anyone. It felt good.

I tried it once more at the front desk, and again it worked like a charm, as I was buzzed through the security door and instructed to proceed to room 105, where I was met with an ashen faced but still very much alive and conscious Howard Carter lying on a gurney. He was beginning to look a bit like a pin cushion as the paramedics and nurses worked on him, seemingly intent on finishing what the shooter had started.

Doctor Donald Smith followed me into the room and asked if I were a friend of Carter.

"Afraid so," I replied.

He motioned me into the hallway. "Well you're going to have to talk your friend into allowing us to take him down to surgery. He's been refusing to go until you got here," Smith explained.

"How bad is it doc?" I asked.

"Well, he has two clean pencil width and pencil straight wounds to his chest. Whatever the hell they were buzzed through him and two layers of bullet proof vest. What are the bad guys carrying these days anyhow?"

"This one seems to have a pretty well stocked toy chest," I said. "What are his chances?"

"Reasonably good if we can get him into an operating room soon," Smith explained. "Minimal damage I'd say, for taking two serious chest wounds. One completely missed anything vital and the other went through the lower end of his right lung, which collapsed the entire lung. There's also a lot of internal bleeding which is my major concern at the moment. His blood pressure isn't all that great. We can only give him so much from a bottle, so we need to get that fixed ASAP. Mr. Carter is a nearly sixty year old man, but even then seems as strong as an ox. I'd put my money on him if I were a betting man."

"Okay," I said. "Then let's do it."

Walking back into Carter's room, I put on my best winning smile and said "Come on Papa, it's time to go."

Carter held up one finger indicating he needed another second, and in a very weak voice said to me, "Johnny. Nurse Black has a note for you. Read it if I don't come back. Now get me out of here."

Carter finally closed his eyes and relaxed as they wheeled him away and down the hall toward the operating room. I could tell that it had taken a lot for him to hang on long enough to give me that message, and I knew Howard well enough to know that it was going to be an important one. I walked with the gurney as far as the end of the hall and as they went through the doors, Carter opened his eyes briefly and gave me a feeble thumbs-up. I blew him an air kiss and added a wink for good measure, and was pleased to see the same old pained expression on his face. I hoped to God that it wouldn't be the last time I'd ever see that look.

I tracked down Nurse Alice Black at the nurse's station and asked her if she had a note for me. She said she did and wanted me to know how impressed she was that Chief Carter had been able to last long enough to make sure that I received it.

"Quite a guy," she said. "This city got lucky when he came on board the Police Department. Chief Carter told me to tell you that if he didn't make it out of surgery alive, you were to go and see the man on this note. And he managed to tell me to tell you to please not give him any BS either. Just do it, is the way he put it. No—to be more precise, he said 'Just this once Johnny, no bullshit, just do it.' You know Chief Carter long Mr. O'Brien?"

"Yeah," I replied. "We go back a long way."

Nurse Black handed me the note, and as she walked away to attend to another patient, I unfolded the paper, written in the hand of Nurse Black and read the simple message—Lucas McCabe, Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. And that was all it said. Folding it up and putting it in my jacket pocket, I turned and headed for the waiting room. I was just fishing out my cell phone from the same pocket when the double doors opened and in walked Officer Linh Zhou. At least now she was walking a fairly straight line.

"What is it with Bellevue cops?" I asked. "Do they always refuse medical treatment?"

"How about yourself?" she countered. "You don't exactly look like you just stepped out of a bandbox."

"Noted. Mostly just some cuts and bruises for me, all courtesy of that damned concrete bench. They shouldn't have those things at nursing homes. The shooter didn't lay a glove on me."

Linh laughed again. It was a sound I was growing fond of.

"I don't think when they put that park bench in there they were envisioning anyone pole-vaulting over it."

"So what happened to your ride home?" I asked.

"Well the way home went right by here, so I just had him drop me off for a while. I'll take a cab the rest of the way."

"Tell you what," I said, "let's sit down over here, before you fall over." Easing her into a nearby chair, I finished dialing John Addams and gave him a report on Carter and my plan for the night. I told Addams to stay on the prison record angle for as long as he could and then head home, promising him that I would call as soon as there was word on Howard.

"I'm going to make you a sweetheart of a deal Linh," I explained as I sat down next to her. "You agree to go in there and get your head examined, and I promise I will not leave this building until you come back. We will probably know a lot more about Chief Carter by then and I'll give you a full report. Then we'll go over our next move."

" _Our_ next move?" she questioned.

"Yes. Our. I want you on my team. That is as long as you promise to not jump on anymore moving vehicles."

"I promise," she said. "At least for the rest of the day."

"Good enough," I replied. "Now get in there."

I watched her move down the hall—too long I suppose. But what the hell—I'm getting older, not going blind.

It was shaping up to be a long evening after a long day and as I retreated out to the waiting room I grabbed some reading material. There wasn't a big selection and I settled for an entertainment magazine. The first article I flipped to was about teen heart throb Justin Bieber. Yup, it _was_ going to be a long day.

I must have dozed off for a while, as I was gently shaken awake by Linh about nine o'clock in the evening to inform me that Carter was out of surgery. I still had the magazine in my hands so I just rolled it up and stuffed it into my back pocket and headed off with Officer Zhou to the critical care unit. Carter had been wheeled into room seven, and again there were a couple of nurses adding to the already impressive number of needles, tubes and monitors sprouting from Howard's body. Amazingly he was awake and conscious. I was beginning to wonder if you could put this guy out with a sledgehammer.

The head nurse informed me that we would have exactly five minutes with Carter and not one second more, so we hurried over to his bedside to talk to him. His lung, now re-inflated, was doing a much better job of getting air into the old boy, and when he spoke his voice was clear although still very weak and halting.

"Did you get the note?" he asked.

"Yeah, I got it," I said. "Who is this guy anyway?"

"Someone who can help," Carter replied. "Look O'Brien. I'm done. I'm probably not going to make it through the night and you damned well know it. You have to go on without me and get this guy. You couldn't stop now if you wanted to. He's hunting you. You have to finish it Johnny—what we started all those years ago."

I tried to hush him, as it was plainly hurting him to speak so much.

"Okay Howard, I'll get this guy's number and give him a call. Just take it easy now."

"No, don't call. Go there. Go to Coeur d'Alene. Go see him."

"Okay Howard. Whatever you say. I'll go see him. Just settle down now and take it easy."

Nurse Ratchet returned and told us we needed to get out for a while and let him rest, so Linh and I went out into the hall just in time to see Doctor Ganesh making his way toward the room. He was a young Indian Doctor and walked with a purpose. I called him over and introduced myself and Officer Zhou and asked him what he thought of Carter's chances.

"Probably fifty-fifty if he makes it through the night," Ganesh replied. "I've got to say however that I've never seen a stronger or more determined man for his age. I think that bumps up the odds quite a bit in his favor." Ganesh excused himself and went in to look at Carter, and Officer Zhou and I exited out of the ICU and took a seat out in the lobby.

"So how's the head?" I asked.

"No concussion," she replied. "Just the mother of all headaches."

"Well Linh, it's been a long tough day. I want you to go home and get some rest. This time it's an order. I'll call with any news on Carter. Sorry, but you're going to have to forget the bed rest. I want you to be at headquarters by ten o'clock in the morning. I'm going to call a meeting of all the detectives on shift and we're going to start doing some coordinating. So far we have just been reacting to this guy, and it's time to start to turn the tables a little. We need to get proactive. I'm taking you off your regular duty and bumping you up to sergeant. You'll be my personal assistant on this case until it's over. That is if you want the job."

"I want it. Thank you."

"We'll see if you think it's much of a promotion in a week or two," I laughed.

"I'm going to hang around here for a while," I continued. "Carter's got two police guards outside his room, so I'm not really all that worried about him, but still, I think there's a chance our guy could make another attempt. He does seem to be a determined son of a bitch. You got a good look at him today Linh. What's your take?"

She hesitated for several seconds before she replied and I could tell that she was framing a serious answer. From what I was seeing in this unique and capable young police officer, I would have expected nothing less.

"As you said, I did get a close look, although it was a damned fast one. I watched the way he moved after he shot at you and Chief Carter. There was something not quite right about it. Something that didn't quite jibe, but I can't put my finger on it. Maybe after a night's sleep I'll be able to. I think that you are absolutely correct when you say you think he might try again tonight. He has a head like a concrete block and a single purpose, and I don't think the flesh wound that he took is going to slow him down very much, if at all. He seems to like attack chess, if you will pardon the metaphor. He likes to hit fast and furious, one blow right after the other, willing to trade right down to the last man. He may feel that with Carter hurt the entire police department is off balance, and this would be a great time to make a surprise move. It would seem to fit his character. And that is why you are going to spend the entire night right here at the hospital, isn't it Johnny?"

"Good Linh. Very good." It was plain I hadn't misjudged her.

"Okay Linh, here's the deal. In addition to the two officers plainly visible outside Carter's room, there are two more outside. One just on the other side of Carter's window, and the other in the bushes about thirty feet away. The receptionist at the desk over there is a discreetly armed plain clothed police woman. The little old couple waiting patiently in the lobby are actually from the Seattle Police Department and have enough firepower to take down an African Elephant. There are also two SWAT snipers stationed in the parking garage on the other side of the drive, all courtesy of Detective Addams. They have the entrance doors covered, although frankly I don't expect them to pick up on our man before he enters the building. He won't be coming in a police car and in a uniform this time. He'll either start his shit in the lobby, or gain entrance to the interior of the ICU posing as a patient. He does have an arm wound, although he may fake something else, like a heart attack. He's fast, he's brutal, and I don't think his stiff right arm is going to slow him down a bit. As a matter of fact, it's likely just jacked him up more. Everyone knows to aim for the head as I'm sure he owns more than one vest.

Linh started to say something, but I waved her silent.

"I already know what you're going to say. No police office worth a crap wants to be sent away just before a firefight. But you're tired, and you're too fried to be an effective fighter. Truth is you would be much more of a liability than an asset. We've got this one covered."

"And you and Carter are the bait. Isn't that right Johnny?"

"Yes. Addams has had Carter's Escalade taken back to his lake house. My little rather hard to miss red Porsche is still prominently sitting right out front. I may be the bait, but I'm probably a lot safer right here than I have been all day."

"Do you have a vest?" Linh enquired.

"Naw. Didn't do Carter much good, did it?"

She tried one more time. "Still, I hate to leave you here."

"You'll survive," I said.

"Yeah—and you do the same."

Linh arose and headed for the exit door. "See you in the morning then," she said. "That is if you don't get your man tonight and if you are still alive tomorrow," she cheerfully added. She paused at the door for a moment and looking back said, "I want you to know something Detective O'Brien. For whatever my opinion may be worth, I think you've really got a set. And that's not something I generally say to a guy I've only known for a few hours."

I nodded a thank you for the compliment as she turned through the door and headed for one of the two standing cabs just a few feet away. I watched her safely off and headed back to the desk and had the receptionist buzz me back into the ICU and room seven. I nodded a greeting to the two uniforms stationed there and went into Carter's room and closed the door behind me.

Carter was at last sleeping peacefully. He had decent color and his vitals looked stable on the monitor. There was a male nurse there with him and I informed him that I would be spending the night bedside. He told me that the nurses and aides would be in at least every fifteen minutes to check on the patient, but they would be happy to work around me. He asked me if I would like some coffee and I demurred.

Pulling a chair up close to the bed, I at last removed what was left of my jacket. Torn and dirty, there was not even enough good stuff left to interest the folks at Goodwill, so I promised myself to toss it on the way out in the morning. There was however, a good use for it still this night. I lay Howard's Glock .40 on the edge of the bed in plain sight, and within easy reach. After seating myself in the chair I placed the shooter's Sig with its nine remaining rounds of ammo in my lap. It had an internal hammer. I swept off the safety. Just pull the trigger and she goes bang, I thought with a little amusement. I was pretty sure he wouldn't have figured me to have picked it up and still have it on me. The disreputable jacket I placed on top of the pistol and the rolled up fan magazine on top of it all.

I knew that as the night wore on I would be bound to fall asleep. After all, it had been many a long year since I'd had the amount of excitement as today, and I was once again beginning to feel a little fuzzy. But going to sleep was going to be alright. I certainly had a fair amount of early warning systems in place. The other thing was that when planning a trap, it's never a good idea to fake too much. And the last thing was, that not a lot of people know, is that when I am really starting to get pissed off, and when I am really sober, I am a very light sleeper. And right at the moment I was more stone cold and Sunday Church School sober, and more _really_ pissed off than I had been in a very long time. I opened up my magazine and started to read.

* * *

Overlake Hospital ICU

Bellevue, Washington

Monday – July 15, 2013

The night passed without incident. I was aware of shadows and movement throughout, and at one time half awoke to catch movement just to my left. I wheeled in that direction and could have sworn that for a split second I saw the shape or outline of a person standing in the corner. Just as quickly it was completely gone and I put it down to a fragment of a dream. It was the welcomed voice of Howard Carter that finally brought me around and fully awake. It was around seven in the morning.

"Well I'll be damned," he softly said. "Guess I'm not going to die after all."

"You're too mean to die," I quipped. "And way too stubborn."

"O'Brien, please tell me you didn't stay here all night like a fussy mother duck."

"Had to Howard. I started reading a magazine article on this Justin Bieber guy, and the cover said I couldn't remove it from the facility. Damned if I wasn't going to finish the article."

"Who's Justin Beaver?" Carter asked.

"I didn't know either," I replied. "Seems he sings, dances and gets in fistfights. Nice to find someone out there with a worse attitude than mine."

Carter smiled. "Last thing I really remember well is you shooting the snot out of a Redmond police car."

"Don't worry," I said. "They promised me they would send you a bill for it."

"Anyone inside?"

"A dead lady Redmond cop. He took her by surprise. All he wanted was the car."

"Sorry to hear that. He's racking up quite a body count. That was some move by the way, over the top of that concrete bench. I think you broke two or three of my ribs."

"You're welcomed Howard."

"I thought you said you didn't like automatics."

"I said I didn't like them. I never say I didn't know how to use one."

"So how come the guy's not dead?"

"My first three would have been in his heart, except for the vest he had on. I tried for his head next, but ran one up his gun hand instead."

"That's a long way from his head," Carter observed.

"Not really," I countered, "He was sighting down his arm at the time."

"You've always got an excuse, don't you O'Brien?" Carter laughed a little then, but it was plain it hurt him. I made a mental note to tell him every joke I knew.

"So what did he hit me with?" Carter asked.

"AP .357 Sig. He guessed you'd be wearing a vest."

"Guessed? Or knew?"

I shrugged. "Take your pick."

"So the reason the rounds got through my vest are the very same reason I'm talking to you right now," Carter reasoned.

"Yup. Armor piercing sails right through Kevlar, but doesn't do extensive tissue damage."

"Anyone hurt in the center?" Carter asked.

"Nope," I replied. "We got lucky there."

"So why aren't you on your way to Coeur d'Alene?"

"Come on Howard, I know what you're doing. You're sending me to see another damned psychic. I know you believe in that crap. I remember the last time you had us get involved with a psychic—Madame Bullshit was her name if I remember right. She couldn't have found her ass with both hands in a dark room if she'd had a week to work on it. It was the Miller case back in '98. The crazy old trout had us running around like chickens with their heads chopped off, chasing our tails for about three weeks until I wised up and fired the old bat."

Howard was laughing again although he was trying hard not to. "Okay. Maybe that wasn't our best detective work ever."

"Maybe not," I agreed.

"Johnny, first of all McCabe is not a psychic. He is something else entirely. Second, he can help. That is if he likes you. That's why you have to go in person. Since I'm not dead, I'm making it an order. Go see him. Leave your bullshit at the door. Speak to him man to man. As an equal, because I assure you that's what he is. He's getting a little older now, maybe eighty something. He runs a little watch shop in a corner of an antique store just off Main Street and Daniels."

Carter continued, "Have a couple of my men follow you over to Mercer so you can shower and change—you're beginning to stink. One cop with you in the Porsche, the other in the squad car. Pack a few things, and have them drive you over to my place out on Phantom Lake. All my men know where it is. Leave the Porsche at your house. Take my Escalade. Your prissy little red ego-mobile is about like hanging out a sign that says 'just shoot me'. Take your time. Take two or three days. I want you out of town for a while to let things cool back down. This little burg can't take too much more excitement. No calls. Report back to me in person when you get back."

"Why no calls?" I asked.

"Because I'm beginning to catch a whiff of something that just could be a little rotten, and a lot closer than Denmark, that's why," Carter replied.

"Yeah, me too," I agreed. "So I'm dropping out of sight in the middle of one of the biggest serial killer cases this State has ever seen, to run off three hundred miles or so to see an eighty year old watch guy in an antique shop. Do you happen to have any watches you'd like me to have repaired for you?"

Howard's face changed then as a shadow crossed over it. I could almost sense that in that moment he had mentally traveled off to a distant time and place, a place that I didn't know anything about. Something that had existed long before our years together.

"Hey guy," I said, "you okay?"

It took Howard a few seconds to find his way back. "Yeah," he said. "I'm okay."

"Johnny," he said.

"What?"

"Thank you for saving my life."

"Don't give it a second thought. Thank you Howard, for saving mine."

"Don't give it a second thought," he grinned back at me.

"Johnny."

"What Howard."

"I just want to say," he hesitated. "I just wanted to say that when I got back from surgery last night, I was hurting so bad I was afraid I was going to die. Then, a couple of hours later I was hurting so bad I was afraid I wasn't going to die. Then I drifted off to sleep again and when I woke up around four or five this morning, I wasn't hurting at all. It was as though something had passed me by. I had a couple of hours after that to just lay here and go over things. Things from a long time ago. You were a part of some of them."

It was obvious Howard was getting tired again and I urged him to rest.

"Shut up O'Brien. I'm going to say all this if it kills me. I've hated you for the past twelve years. I blamed you for Jan leaving me. I blamed you for ruining my life and destroying my happiness. Truth is Johnny, there was precious little happiness to ruin. And Jan didn't run to you either—she ran away from me. You just happened to be the one that was there. I was too old for Jan. Or more exactly, she was too young for me. She was too full of life. What I'm trying to say is that I got over it all last night. What I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry."

I was having a little trouble with my voice, but at last I managed to say, "She was too young for either of us Howard, and she was way too good for both of us."

"So what are you doing still standing here?" Howard said at last, pulling himself together and returning fully to the present.

"I'm off to Coeur d'Alene then," I said. "I'll send you word. I have someone I trust. Who's running the show back here?"

"John Addams. Good man. I trust him, and he'll do a great job."

"Do you trust him with your life?" I asked.

Howard thought for a second. "Yeah, I guess I do."

"Well then, pardon me for a minute while I go and give him a call. Before I leave, there's just one more little thing that I'm going to have to do," I said.

"What's that Johnny?"

"I'm going to kill you Howard."

Howard's face registered surprise for a moment, and I was glad to see that his eyes flashed down, ever so briefly, to the Glock still lying on the edge of the bed. Then, comprehending, a broad smile split his face in two.

"Sweet," he said.

"Keep your Glock Howard. You might need it."

"Okay, good idea. Bastard might try again here after all. Johnny, when you get to my house, the key is under a fake stone just to the left of the back door. Can't miss it. Go inside the study. In the upper right hand drawer of my desk you'll find a second set of Escalade Keys and this gun's twin brother. Just the same in every way. They were a matched set. Should be two boxes of fifty rounds in there too. Take it all with you and put it to good use. You might also take your little pop-gun you used to carry in Spokane for backup, and for good luck. It got you out of a mess or two before."

"It did indeed," I agreed.

"Dump some food in the cat's bowl while you're there too, if you would Johnny. I'll have my sister Nora go out later and bring her back to her place."

"You have a cat?" I asked, surprised. I didn't know Howard cared that much for animals in general.

"Yeah. A fat old lady cat named Chianti. Chi-chi for short. She looks like a football with legs, but she's an old dear. Doesn't like to miss very many meals, I'm afraid. My sister Nora gave her to me a few years ago. She was afraid I would get lonely out there on the lake without something to keep me company. I have to admit I've grown fond of the old girl."

"Howard, you constantly amaze me," I laughed.

Howard and I just sort of looked at each other for a few seconds without saying anything, and then Carter finally spoke. "Later then," he said.

"Later then," I repeated, and turned and walked out the door. It was a term that Howard and I and a goodly number of other partners used as well. We said it at the end of our shifts, just before we went home at night. Home to wives, to children, to home cooked meals and holiday celebrations. It was guy code for "Take care. Be careful. I love you my friend."

Exiting Overlake Hospital in the company of my two well-armed Bellevue cop escorts, we headed out for Mercer Island. Overhead the sun was beginning to beat down. Here in the dark cool northwest, it was promising to be another hot day.

In the small news conference room of Overlake Hospital, a sad faced Doctor Omar Ganesh announced to a crowd of reporters, the death of Chief Howard Carter of the Bellevue Police Department at seven thirty seven in the morning, as a direct result of wounds suffered the day before. His body would be transported to a local funeral home for direct cremation, the Doctor explained, and arrangements for a public memorial service would be made by the family for some future date.

Chief Carter's duties at the police department would temporarily be taken over by Lead Homicide Detective John Addams, and the investigation into the killing of Chief Carter and the random shooting at the community center the night before would be handled directly by him. All questions were to be directed to his office, the Doctor said in closing.

In the back corner of the conference room, a burly young man with a square face and a long sleeved shirt listened intently to the announcement, then turned and left the building, getting into his white Ford Bronco, a slight smile crossing his face. In the back of the lot, propped up against a concrete abutment, lay the body of a middle-aged man, his life blood slowly seeping out of a ragged and deep neck wound, his use for the Bronco, along with all other worldly possessions, now over.
CHAPTER NINE

As consciousness slowly returned to her body, the first sensation Missy had indicating that she might not be dead, was that of cold. The next was wetness. The darkness, impenetrable as that of the inside of a coffin, refused to lift, no matter how many times or hard she blinked her eyes. Missy could feel the cold metal shackles and chain that bound her hands and feet. Her wrists, bound together, were stretched up and over her head, while her ankles were constrained separately, one on each side of the rough wooden table, her legs spread wide. A dull throbbing ache from her genitals brought back the memory of the assault. He never spoke to her during his attacks and didn't seem to mind that she might make noise or cry out. Instead, he seemed to enjoy trying to make her cry and beg for him to stop. But she never did. She seemed to know he would feed on it. Repeatedly her assailant had forced objects into her, deep, hard and fast they had been rammed home, until she had passed out. Then upon awakening, he would begin again and again, over and over, ever so slowly at first and ever so methodically, building to a crescendo and his release.

He would bend shaking over her, spent from the climaxing, his breath coming in ragged bursts. He would rub himself between his legs to speed his cumming, but never however, did he remove a single article of his clothing, and never did he enter her with his penis. Fingers, fists and objects were his torture tools of choice. His favorite were the black balls, seemingly made of a hard plastic, about two inches in width. He seemed to have an endless supply. Sometimes he had rammed several at one time into both her rectum and vagina, until she nearly cried out in agony. He seemed to enjoy the faint clicking sound they made as he forced them in. Between times, he would clean and dry them of their gore so the clicking would be more pronounced. After forcing them into her, he would leave them there until his return, and then cruelly extract them with his hands, or with a metal spoon, and begin again. The last time he hadn't returned, but Missy had been able to expel all of them from inside her rectum at last, but could still feel another that had been inserted too far into her vagina to push out.

This had gone on for some time. Missy did not know how long. She thought she might have been captive here for at least a week. Her captor had been gone away for several days now. While he had been here, he had fed her once or twice a day and gave her water. That had ended now, and her stomach rumbled in its emptiness. Although her mouth was very dry, it was fortunate that a leak from a water pipe above dripped onto the table where she was bound, just to the side of her head, and by bending her neck sharply to the right, she was able to lick up a bit of moisture. It had been keeping her alive for a while now since he had gone away. Missy guessed that might have been three or four days. There was no morning, noon or night in the windowless and airless room. Only one bare light bulb lighted the table from above. He turned it off each time he left.

The stench of her own urine and feces, now caked and drying between her legs, was nearly overpowering in the enclosed space of what Missy knew to be a small basement. Every once in a while she would feel a tiny creature making its way over her naked body. She knew they were spiders and tried hard to not think about it too much. One had stopped on her right breast a day or two ago, and administered a nasty bite near her nipple. It had hurt so much and for so long that Missy had to fight not to scream out. But screaming was not her way. She knew that giving way to panic would do her no good. She had to stay calm. She had to keep her wits about her.

She had to live. Missy had seen both the chain saw and the axe standing against the wall in the corner of the room, and she very well knew that these would eventually be for her. The dark stains on the sides of both indicated that they had been used before.

Missy wondered where Debby might be, but in her heart she thought she knew. Since she and her friend had accepted the ride offered them by the nice young man with the crew cut in the black truck, she had not seen her friend again. That had been maybe a week or so ago. It seemed so long now since the two of them had run off from home and headed east on highway 90. They were just outside Spokane, Washington when the guy had pulled over and asked them if they wanted a ride into town. This despite the fact that they hadn't even been hitch hiking at the time. They were simply walking along the shoulder of the interstate. At first they said no, but he had been persistent, claiming that thunderstorms were on the way and he didn't want them to get hurt walking along a dark highway at night like that. What with all the high speed traffic and the rain, he said, no one would ever be able to see them.

He claimed to be an auto mechanic and said he lived right downtown in Spokane, just off Division Street. He had a nice smile, a very soft voice, and although he was big and burly, he certainly didn't seem menacing. In fact there was a certain softness about him, so they had accepted the ride. They hadn't gone very far down the road when he claimed that there was something wrong with the truck, and he pulled over to take a look. After a quick glance under the hood, he had returned to the passenger side window and shot them both with a Taser gun before either could make a move. Then he tied them up and injected some sort of drug into their arms. That was all she could remember until she had awoken here on this table. She had never seen Debby again.

She missed Debby a lot. Best friends since childhood, they were each now sixteen. Both Debby and she were tired of the crap that each of them had to put up with from their parents. They thought they had a chance to make it on Broadway. The big city lights of New York called to them. They both knew they would be a sensation. They were a sort of odd couple, with Debby a white girl, and Missy a very pretty light skinned African-American. Skin color meant nothing to either of them. They had been fast friends since they had spoken the very first word to each other at about the age of three. Both loved to act, could sing, and as Debby wryly noted a time or two, could also play the steel guitar. So off one night they had struck, heading east on 90. They had chosen this way to go as Debby had a favorite aunt in North Dakota, who they were sure would help them on their way. Their plans had taken a detour in the inside of that black truck, and remembering back, Missy was pretty hard pressed to recall what had been so bad about home after all. She had a loving if somewhat overprotective mother and a not at all bad step-dad. She liked him a lot. Perhaps they were looking for her now. Perhaps help was on the way.

Again Missy's stomach rumbled out its hunger cry, and trying to ignore it, Missy craned her neck once more far to the right, to take in another drop or two of life giving moisture. Soon after she grew drowsy once more, and despite the goose bumps on her chilled flesh, and fear of the ever present spiders, was fast asleep in no time.
CHAPTER TEN

We cleared the house on Mercer Island, and headed out highway 90 toward Bellevue and Phantom Lake and Howard's place. While at the house I had finally gotten the hot shower and shave Carter had said I needed so badly. Hate to say it, but the old boy was right again—I did stink to high heaven. I also changed into dark slacks, white shirt and a lightweight grey jacket, no tie. With one band-aid placed jauntily over a cut above my right eyebrow I was looking bitchin' if I do say so myself. I've been told a number of times in my life that I bear some resemblance to the actor Geoffrey Rush, back in the day when he was forty or so. I'm 42 and I might be an inch or so taller, and have a natural curl to my hair, but other than that there _is_ a lot of similarity. I'm not entirely sure however, just who that is insulting more—Geoffrey or me.

My brown hair was just starting to get a tinge or two of grey, most prominently at the temples. I expected that process to only increase in the next few days. I strapped on my old shoulder holster with the "pea-shooter" gun that Howard had made fun of. Actually it was a little stainless steel Smith and Wesson Chief's special, caliber 38. The last time I had used it was to pump two slugs into the eight-ball killer's body. Sadly, they hadn't had all that much effect. The police issued ammo back then in the Spokane backwaters were the simple lead round nose bullets at standard velocity. Progress marches on however, and these days I had it loaded with 125 grain high velocity hollow-points. I expected them to make a greater impression on him if I could get him up close and under my sights again. I had to remember to aim for the head, something that isn't always that easy to do under stress. All cops are trained to aim for the center of mass, which is the middle of the chest. When the lead starts flying it is pretty easy to revert to standard practice. In this case however, standard practice was likely to get me killed. I still had the shooter's SIG stuffed in the back of my pants and I was on my way to pick up another Glock 40. If this mission failed, it certainly wasn't going to be from a lack of firepower on my part.

On my way out the door, overnight bag on my shoulder, I gave a furtive glance at the word processor sitting on my desk. Already it seemed like a million years since I had sat at that machine grinding out yet another Jack McGuire claptrap novel, although it was in reality only a few days. "Well Jackie boy," I said, "Here's until we meet again. And if we don't—buddy, it's been a sweet ride." Some of my readers have told me that they think McGuire is my alter ego. To that I say nonsense. Jack McGuire is _me_.

We reached Carter's place in about thirty minutes. I had never seen it before, and I was impressed. Carter was a rustic sort of a man, and his taste in houses reflected it. His lake "cottage" as he called it, was actually a two story dark brown country estate, sitting on two large lakefront lots. The sign on the front door said simply "Welcome to the Lake." The house sits back about a hundred feet from the water's edge. Phantom Lake was a pleasant little body of water, surrounded by mostly tasteful and upscale homes. The neighbors both to the right and left of Howard could not be seen however, due to the tremendously thick pines trees and other shrubs dotting the property. The house itself was very difficult to see, buried as it was in the stately cedar and pines.

I walked around the two car garage to the back and under the sprawling deck to the sliding glass door. Just to the left of the door was the rock that Howard had told me about. It was plainly obvious that it had been disturbed and not replaced exactly in the same place, and I smiled a little at Howard's carelessness. Only out here in the middle of nowhere would he be able to get away with it. In the big city the crooks would have the place stripped and empty in about three seconds flat if he left out an invitation that plain. The key was under the rock, just as he said it would be. The two Bellevue cops and I did a quick walk through of the house, and finding nothing out of place, I excused them to return to duty. I intended to stay around for about an hour or so and then head off for Idaho. Looking around briefly for Howard's cat and not finding her, I made a note to ask Linh to come out later and feed the damned thing. She was going to find out that being a personal assistant wasn't all glamour. I needed to let her know too that the meeting at ten o'clock was off for a few days.

The study was down the hall on the upper level, just past the surprisingly small kitchen. No matter there I thought. Howard was not well known for his culinary skills. The study however, was quite spacious. One of the police officers had looked in this room earlier and left the door about a foot or two open. I swung it open wide and looked around for the light switch. It was located just to the left of the door, but when I switched it on nothing happened. I wasn't sure if it was simply a burned out bulb, or perhaps I had the wrong switch. The curtains in the room were tightly drawn, and even though it was a bright warm day outside, little light entered the gloomy and dark room. I could see a couple of black leather chairs and a sofa. No surprise there. Howard always did like the "manly" look of leather. I could plainly make out his large and cluttered desk across the room, and I could see a desk lamp on top. All I really wanted was in the desk drawer anyhow, so I made my way across the gloomy room to turn it on. Walking around the desk in the semi-dark, I managed to bark my shin on one corner and let out a small "damn." When I did, I thought I heard some movement across the room by the door. I froze, with the hairs rising on the back of my neck.

I peered across the room toward the door, now swung nearly to the wall and decided that there was not enough room there to hide a person. My eyes were now pretty well adjusted to the darkness in the room and I could see no other place where someone could be lurking. I thought I must have heard an old house sound. This one was probably at least fifty years old. They do begin to creak with age, same as people. I resumed my search for the pull chain on the lamp, and finding it at last, switched it on. That was when my heart nearly stopped beating.

There in the middle of the desk, laid out rather nicely and neatly was Howard's second Glock. It had the same holster set-up as the first, with the same type ammo in the gun and in the extra two magazines. He was right. It was a perfect twin. Sitting right next to the pistol was the Escalade keys. All of it was placed on top of a single sheet of white copy paper, obviously taken from the printer, sitting by the side of the desk. I could see printing on the paper, but could not tell what it said. And right next to all of this was one perfectly round, perfectly clean, shiny black pool ball with the number eight marking its side, number up and facing me.

For a second or two I forgot to breathe as my eyes caught movement across the room, and the study door slowly began to close again. Not trusting the gun so conveniently left for me on the desk top, I jerked the little Smith out of its shoulder holster while dropping one knee to the floor and trained the front sight into the darkness behind the slowly closing door. Perhaps this is it, I thought as my mind raced and my heart pounded wildly in my chest. Here is where we finish it—right here in Howard's study.

A second or two later my adversary emerged from behind the door, an extremely rotund tortoise-shell colored housecat. Getting my breathing back under control and re-holstering my gun, I walked across the room and picked her up. "Well hello Chi-Chi," I said in greeting. "Nice to meet you too. I'm getting too damned old for this old girl. Nearly killed of a heart-attack by an unarmed house cat. What would all my friends have said?"

Returning to the desk with the cat still in my arms, I pulled the paper out from under the pistol and read the killer's message:

My Dear Mr. O'Brien:

Well sir, you are proving to be more resourceful than I would have thought. You have not only survived my attack on you, but wounded me as well. Very careless on my part. I assure you that I will not be so in our future engagements. Now that Carter is dead, I can turn all of my attention to you. You are now my sole occupation. Well, maybe not. You see Mr. O'Brien, I know something you do not. The dead girl that you found in my duffel—you remember the one don't you? The one with her head cut off and my pool ball where her trachea should be? Ah yes, that one. Well sir, she was but one half of a mismatched set. The one half I gave to you and Carter. The other I still have. I will be attending to her very shortly—that is, beyond the visits she and I have already had together. Let me assure you sir, she will die very, very slowly. She will die in great pain. And she will die within three days' time, if you do not find me and stop me. I do not think you can do it. What do you think sir? I will leave her remains for your perusal in a very public place. You will be able to examine my handiwork closely. I believe it is very good. See if you do not agree. But I warn you to be careful and watch over your shoulder while you look at this child's fate. Her fate will be yours, save one difference. I like the pool balls a lot. I believe they fit my style nicely. But for you sir, I shall deviate. Into your dead mouth I shall insert something else entirely. Something that I shall acquire from you, after I detach it from another part of your body. Have a very nice day sir, and—catch me if you can.

K.

Time froze in that silent and still room as I read his letter, signed only with the letter "K".

The cat's green eyes bore into mine as I took in the sheer and utter hatred and menace pouring out of that message. For the very first time, I realized, in a long career as a cop and then a writer of tawdry dime novels, I had come face to face with the real, pure, undiluted and unadulterated, pulsating Evil, the kind with a big capital "E".

I almost jumped out of my skin as my cell phone rang at that moment. I jerked it out my pocket and punched the talk button. "O'Brien," I said. There was a second or two of hesitation, and then a soft voice floated into my ear. The kind of voice one might hear in a conversation over coffee at a restaurant. There was no menace in the tone, only in the words.

"Good morning," the voice said. "I trust you have found and read my note by now. If not, I wanted to be sure that you did not miss it. It is time for the games to begin, Mr. O'Brien. Do you not think that is true? How much time we all waste, do we not? So then let us get right to it. I am not very far away at this moment, as you might imagine. Perhaps I am right outside the door. Perhaps I am across the yard and hidden in the trees. Maybe I have that big assault rifle in my hands right now. Does it have a scope? If it does, is your head in my scope right now? What do you think Mr. O'Brien? Shall I shoot you dead as you come out of the house? Or shall I toy with you a while longer? Maybe a kneecap or two—to start. Come on, some suggestions would be helpful. . ."

I weighed the idea of simply hitting the end button and letting this lunatic stew, but decided on another course of action that I liked a lot better. I was starting to get tired of this nut case always being one step ahead and always having us off balance. Time to turn the tables, and if I ending up getting a bullet through the head—well, what the hell, no one lives forever anyway. Speaking clearly into the phone and trying to remove any trace of the abject fear that I was truly feeling at this moment, I said, "Sounds good to me asshole. I'm walking out the side door right now. I'll be in the driveway in about ten seconds. I'm going to be standing there with this stupid phone in one hand and this dumb cat in the other for as long as it takes you to get your sorry butt in gear and blow me away. As far as cutting off my dick goes—have at it. I haven't used it for anything interesting for a while anyway. But to tell you the truth creep, I don't think you can do it because I don't believe you're anywhere near this house right now. So now I'll tell you what, you sick son of a bitch—kill me if _you_ can. Because if you don't I'm gonna come find you and blow your sick sorry ass back into the same hot hell that you just crawled up out of. Now freak, how do you like dem apples?"

Lowering the phone, I walked out into the driveway a moment later and just stood there, phone in one hand and cat in the other, just as I had said. Even the cat was looking at me like I was an idiot. I was seriously wondering that myself, but as the seconds turned into a minute, I put the phone back to my ear and said, "So where are you poolie? I thought you said you wanted to play. You're pretty tough with little girls, you perverted bastard, how about trying something man-sized for a change?"

The voice on the other end was darker now, and very flat. "Very good Mr. O'Brien. Very good indeed. I am most impressed. This is going to be a lot more fun than I thought—see you soon." Then the phone went dead. A minute later a small black Honda pulled into the drive, and Officer Linh Zhou emerged. Although I could tell that she had left home in a hurry and without her makeup, it was a very small loss. She was still dazzling.

"What's going on," she demanded. "Why are you standing out here in the middle of the driveway holding a cat?"

"Well I just got a love note and phone call from our serial killer. That's what's going on."

"What did he want?"

"Mostly he wanted me to pee my pants, I think. Damned near got his wish too. What are you doing here anyhow?"

"Came to get you. Got new info. Most of it I'm not supposed to have either," she said. "I went in early to talk to Addams and confirm my promotion. He said that if it was okay with you it was fine with him, and he gave me a shiny new sergeant's badge on the spot. He told me where to find you. Then he sent me down to the lab to see if they had any results yet. One of the techs is a friend of mine. So what I'm going to tell you is hot off the press. I actually had to wait about forty minutes while they finished up a test. No one at headquarters knows yet either—Addams was gone when I got back to his office, so I called and asked the lab to sit on it for a few hours. My new sergeant rank helped a lot there," she explained.

"Good girl!" I exclaimed. I could have almost kissed her.

"So do you want to hear it or what?" she said.

"On the way. Does anyone know that car you're driving?" I asked, on my way back into the study to retrieve the Glock.

"Not really. I borrowed it from dad. I don't own one yet."

"Great. We'll take it. Call your pop and tell him his car has been commandeered for official police business. Hope he doesn't mind too much. Can't risk starting up Howard's big tank. It may be rigged to blow for all I know. Besides, it's too well known."

"Dad won't care," she replied. "He loves the police like they're blood relatives. He can use mom's for a while. Where we going?"

"Idaho," I replied.

"What's in Idaho?" she asked.

"Damned if I know," I said, climbing into the passenger side, and tossing the cat onto the rear seat. "My new good luck charm," I said, nodding toward the critter. "You drive. I'll ride shotgun for the first stretch."

With that we pulled from the driveway and headed out on Interstate 90, due east toward the Washington State line.
CHAPTER ELEVEN

By the time we were ten miles out of town, Chi-chi was already registering a noisy complaint about the absence of her food bowl, so we stopped at a store to pick her up some cat chow. Standing in the parking lot of the Seven/Eleven and watching her eat her food and drink her milk, I began to feel for the first time the slow release of emotion that had overcome me back at Carter's house. I realized now that I had been running on pure adrenaline when I went into Howard's driveway and challenged the shooter to kill me. It probably wasn't the most sensible thing I had done all week, but then this had become a somewhat unusual week to say the least. Anyway, I was picking up a lot of new material for the next McGuire book—if I lived long enough to write it that was. Linh was just returning from the ladies room where she had applied a little eye make-up. It was plain she had been crying a bit, and I was pretty sure I knew the reason why.

"I guess you heard the news about Carter," I said.

She nodded. "It was on the radio on my way into the station this morning. I was so sorry and so sad. He was a very good man. He was always so nice to me. I still can hardly believe he's dead."

"Well then," I said, "maybe I can cheer you up a little. Wasn't it Mark Twain who once said that rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated?"

Linh's eyes widened. "Yes it was," she said. "What are you trying to tell me Johnny?"

"Just that when I helped load Howard's 'body' into the back of a hearse this morning, the very last thing that I did before I closed the back door was to shake his hand and wish him a nice rest and recuperation up at this sister's house in Bothell. He told me he'd been meaning to slow down a little anyway, and his death was going to allow him to finally do just that."

Linh's face broke into a blinding smile. "Johnny, you are the slyest son of-a-bitch I have ever met—and I mean that as a compliment!" she said.

"Thanks—I'll take it as one."

"Who knows?" she asked.

"You, me, Dr. Ganesh, his nurse, the cop driving the hearse, Nora, and of course Howard."

"How did you talk Ganesh into it?"

"Well, he wasn't too crazy about the idea, but I finally convinced him that Howard stood a much better chance of recovering from two bullet wounds to his chest at his sister's house than he did with half a dozen new ones back at the hospital. She's a retired nurse after all. He'll be fine. Ganesh pretty much agreed with my line of reasoning and played his part to perfection at the news conference."

"How about Addams?"

"What do you think about Addams Linh?"

"Don't know him well enough to have an opinion, Johnny."

"Yeah, me either. Seems like a good cop though. Howard thinks highly of him. He stopped in at the hospital to see Howard for a few minutes on his way home last night. Howard was asleep at the time. Checked to make sure everything was in place in case the killer showed up—and then he went home."

"So what does he think about Howard's fake death? He didn't mention a word to me this morning. Of course, I wouldn't have expected him to. I'm not very high up on the food chain."

"Addams doesn't know. I started to call him this morning, but then I stopped. I'm beginning to think there may be some leaks at headquarters, and I don't know at this point where they're coming from. Addams can run the department well enough thinking Howard is in his grave. I don't know him well enough to guess if he's a blabber-mouth or not, but as they say in the Army, loose lips sink ships."

"I think that's the Navy," she said.

"Whatever," I replied smiling. It was nice to feel some of the tension of the morning lifting, and definitely great to be with Linh. At this point Chi-Chi had finished her late breakfast and was looking around hopefully for some dessert. I scooped her up and placed her on the back seat again where she immediately curled up and started to go to sleep. She seemed to be a good traveler for a cat. I knew from past experience that is not always the case. Jan was a big time cat lover. I kind of felt that if she were watching me from above she was pleased we had brought the old girl with us and not left her alone in the house. The fact that I didn't have the faintest idea of what to do with her now was just beginning to sink in. "Any ideas on what to do with our new found friend?" I asked Linh.

"Take her along and hope Howard's friend in Coeur d'Alene is a cat lover," she replied. "What do we know about him anyway?"

"Not much. Carter said the guy's not a psychic, but Howard was always kind of in to that sort of mumbo-jumbo, so I'm still not too sure. He said he could help, _if_ he liked me. Guess I'm going to have to be on my best behavior when I present my case. Trouble is, I'm not too sure I have a best behavior."

Linh was grinning openly now. "Maybe you better let me talk to him then. Seriously Johnny, you'll be just fine. You have a good heart. I think maybe you just forgot where you left it. Trust me, I know these things."

"Oh, I know where it is," I replied. "Buried up in Sunset Hills Cemetery along with my wife Jan."

"She was a very good woman, no?" Linh asked.

"Yeah—she was a very good woman," I answered. "She was my one and only. I mean, I'm not a Trappist Monk or anything like that," I explained. "But she was my one and only."

"You might be surprised just how much those Trappist Monks get," Linh said, laughing again.

I laughed too then, but not trusting myself to travel too much farther down that particular road, quickly changed the subject. "So what's the news from our friends at the lab?"

"Well Johnny, they ran full-spectrum tests from the shooter's arm wound blood that he left in the mall restroom to see if they could match it up with any known database, and of course the answer to that is no. But—surprise, surprise, surprise, the person who has been so industrially trying to kill you and Howard is—drum roll here—a woman."

"You got to be shitting me," I said.

"Well, that's pretty much what I said to the lab guys too, but they said the chromosomes don't lie. They are going to run DNA in the next couple of days, but they say that will only confirm it. And to tell you the truth, I think they're absolutely right on. It's what I couldn't quite put my finger on yesterday. The shooter moved more like a woman than a man. She might be big and muscular, and wear a man's haircut, but she is definitely a female."

"Wow," I said, still trying to compute the new info in my mind. "That kind of changes everything, doesn't it? That removes any lingering doubt that this guy, or I guess I should say this gal, is the old eight-baller from Spokane."

"The old what?" Linh asked.

As morning turned to afternoon and the car rolled forward through the Cascade Mountains and into the lowlands and desert and the scenery changed from green to brown, I filled Linh in on all the details of the old case that had been hidden from the public for so long. I also told her about the pool ball in the neck of the victim at the Community Center Saturday night, and the phone call I received while I was at Howard's house. I showed her the note that had been under the gun and car keys.

"So how did Ms. Nutcase know you were going to be there?" Linh wondered.

"That would seem to be the sixty-four thousand dollar question," I said.

"The what?"

"Never mind. It's a very old American television reference. I'm showing my age."

"That is one thing Johnny, which you are most definitely _not_ showing."

I was beginning to feel a little heat building up at right about my hairline, so again I changed the subject. "Three days to save a kid's life, and not only do I not have the faintest of where she is, but I don't even know her name. Maybe I could use a psychic after all."

"You won't need McCabe for that one," Linh replied. "That's the other information I had for you. The murdered girl's name was Debby Gardner. She was last seen in the company of a sixteen year old black girl named Missy Spencer. They were best friends since childhood and apparently ran away together. Both from the Portland, Oregon area."

"So Carter was right about Portland. 'The mismatched set'. Where were they last seen" I asked.

"At an I-90 truck stop, headed in the direction of Spokane"

"Why Spokane, do you think?"

"I may have an answer for that too," Linh replied. "Seems they wanted to go to New York. Big city lights in their eyes. The dead girl had an Aunt in North Dakota. They may have been heading there for reinforcements."

"So he, now she, didn't pick them up near Seattle like Carter originally thought. Probably a lot further east. Everything seems to come back to Spokane, doesn't it?"

"It does," she answered. "Isn't it about time you told me about your shootout with the original killer twelve years ago? This is all connected you know."

"It is indeed," I said. "We'll go about fifty or sixty miles and make another pit-stop. I think I can cover it pretty well in that space of time."

"Hold off on that Johnny. No sense in telling a long story twice, and I think Mr. McCabe might need to hear it more even more than I do."

"Assuming that he is interested in helping us that is," I said.

"Assuming that. But I'll tell you what Johnny, anyone that wouldn't lift a finger to help after reading that note would be too cold of a son-of-a bitch for me to want on my team anyway."

"Point well taken Linh. I will tell you one thing however, and that is back then in my heyday on the force, I was known as a pretty good detective. People said that I had a talent for getting inside the bad guy's heads. They also said I had a good nose for smelling something rancid—like a cow pie when my face was stuck right in the middle of it. What happened this morning out at Howard's had the look, the feel and the smell of a great big ripe cow pie being slammed into my face, and I don't think I'm wrong either."

"What I'm saying is that I don't believe either this note or the phone call came from Ms. Psychopath. I think that if she had made that phone call, she actually would have been just outside with a rifle and my brains would be splattered all over Howard's driveway right now. The thing is however, that I don't think she writes notes or makes phone calls or has much to say about anything. I think that what she pretty much does is kills things. Sometimes fast, and sometimes not so fast. I think she is probably on her way back home right now to do some slow killing, and I think that home is in Spokane, just like the old eight-baller. They are connected—I just don't know how."

"So who wrote the note and made the phone call?" Linh asked.

"Why, the puppeteer of course. The guy—and it is a man I'm sure, that is really behind all of this. The one pulling the strings on her, on you, on me and everyone else involved in this case. The guy who's been making us all dance—and to tell you the truth Linh, I'm really not that fond of dancing."

"Any ideas on who?" Linh said.

"Not a damned one, and that's the problem. If we can't figure out what's really going on behind the scenes in this case, we don't have a dog's chance in hell of getting to that girl in time to save her life. If that man in Coeur d'Alene can help in any way, I'll deal with him if he is Satan himself."

"Help me Johnny," Linh said. "I'm not even close to being a detective. What do you want me to do?"

"Okay. Find some paper. Maybe there's some in the glove box. I have a pen in my jacket pocket. Let's make a list, as near as we both can remember, of every single person that has had contact with either you or me or this case in any way, shape or form since the shooting first started Saturday night. We'll both brainstorm—you write, and I'll drive. Cinch your seatbelt up tight. I'm letting the hammer down on this car. What's the point of having a badge if you can't use it to do a little speeding now and then. If we get stopped, it'll get us through."

"It's not a bad little car Johnny. I had it up to a hundred once."

I raised an eyebrow on that one. "Well let's see if we can get there again. I think every second we waste is one second closer to another headless dead girl on our conscience. Don't know about you but I got too much there already. I'm not too much of a Church going man, Linh. Tell you the truth, I don't even really remember the last time I walked into one of the things. But I'm praying to God right now that this Lucas McCabe guy isn't just another hack."

"I'll pray too Johnny. My folks may have been born in Thailand, but I come from a long line of Roman Catholics. While I'm praying though, I'm going to keep my eyes open. The third thing I had to tell you was that she killed another guy and took his car at Overlake Hospital this morning. She was probably at the fake news conference. She could be in a white Ford Bronco, or even something else by this time. I'll bet you my next week's paycheck however, she's heading the same way we are right now."

"No bet," I said, stepping hard on the gas and sending the little car hurtling toward Idaho. Glancing for a second into the back seat, I added, "Well old Chi-Chi, sorry to say no more stops for you before the State Line. Hope you filled up this morning because lunch is going to be a little delayed."

I could have sworn she shot me a dirty look.
CHAPTER TWELVE

As the white Ford Bronco entered the ramp onto Interstate 90 heading east, the young man behind the wheel was still fuming at his meddling brother. He was just making his plans to get home as soon as possible and get started on the girl in the basement again. He was looking forward to it, but he was beginning to be afraid that he might have already lost her. He had been gone for several days now and she hadn't had any food or water during that time. He really didn't mind if the bitch starved slowly to death—that might have been fun to watch. But he knew that without water she would die very soon. And he wanted her to die in complete and total agony, not relatively painlessly from dehydration.

But now his damned brother was not only telling him to bypass Spokane altogether and go to Idaho, but also saying that he needed to keep her alive for three days as well. This did not fit with Kyle's plans at all. He had thought of several new and wonderful tools to use on her. He intended to make the bitch not only cry, but to plead with him to speed up the process and let her die. He would not be accommodating. She would die only when he was good and ready for her to. And she would be largely unrecognizable as a human being when she did. Kyle had been very easy on her up to this point, just as his brother had told him to, but that was going to end pretty damned soon.

Kyle could hear his brother's voice in the phone even now. "Listen Kyle, just do as I say. Have I always been right before? If you don't find this O'Brien guy and kill him first, he will find some way to track you down. He's like a bulldog. He won't give up. Look bro, I want you to have your fun with this black chick, but I also don't want you to be disturbed while you're having it. And if you get rid of this guy, there will be endless girls for you to do whatever you want to with. Come on Kyle, you know I'm on your side here, same as always. Who's always been your best friend? Me. Since childhood. You know that. I've always had your back."

So, reluctantly one more time, Kyle had put his own plans on hold to further his brother's agenda. Sure, his brother always said he was on his side, but sometimes Kyle wasn't so sure. Sometimes Kyle would catch the way his brother looked at him when he didn't think he was paying attention. Sometimes Kyle would see the look of revulsion on his brother's face. Kyle knew himself that he was no genius, but he was sure smart enough to know that his brother looked down on him. And Kyle knew that someday he was going to have to deal with that.

But not today. Today he would do as he was told. Today he would go and kill that bastard O'Brien, and anyone else who happened to be with him, just like his brother had told him to. He had some tools in the back of the Bronco that was going to help him do just that. Kyle had to admit that it was going to be kind of fun. O'Brien had given him the wound on his arm. It still hurt like hell and still seeped through the bandages from time to time. But all things come to he who waits, and what goes around comes around, just as his brother always told him. His brother had a lot of cute sayings like that. Sometimes they even made Kyle laugh a little, one of the few things that ever did.

Thinking about waking the bitch up and getting started on her beautiful body again made Kyle feel happy too. First he would give her water and make her feel that she was going to live after all. That wouldn't last long however. Very soon she would know the truth as she watched him unload his toys. He could hardly wait to see the expression on her face and the panic in her eyes. Then he would begin, slowly at first and then picking up speed and tempo. He could imagine her flailing and screaming until she passed out. Even after her voice gave out, she would still be able to grunt and moan for a long time. He had to be careful not to lose her to shock. He had to keep the blood loss to a minimum. The small butane torch would work well for that. It was one of his favorite tools. It caused terrific pain while at the same time slowing bleeding. The best of both worlds. He also had lots of ammonia to bring her around. Kyle had found from past experience that he could use that trick over and over to bring them back to consciousness. Eventually of course it would sicken them and they would vomit all over. Kyle didn't mind cleaning it up however. All in a day's work. The sickness, nausea and vomiting were all part of the fun as far as he was concerned. He had a nice garden hose down there and a good drain in the floor. The well water was ice cold. It would send them into shock as well. Sometimes Kyle would insert it into their bodies and listen to them scream and beg for mercy that would not be forthcoming.

Kyle was getting excited now as he drove, and reached down between his legs to stimulate himself. Sometimes he liked to think that he was starting to get an erection like a normal man, but each time it proved to be a cruel joke. Sure he could orgasm through the damned thing, but there was no cum, and even with the useless surgical implants there was not enough stiffness to be able to penetrate a woman. The doctors had told him that this would largely be the case, but Kyle had not heard them, or perhaps he did not choose to hear them. What matter he thought. They were all quacks anyway, and liars too. Kyle remembered the doctor who had performed his operation. He had been glib with Kyle, and he had looked down on him too, and for that the doctor would pay with his life just as soon as Kyle finished with the black bitch. After all, one person could only do so much at a time.

Kyle wanted to be able to have sex with a woman just like an ordinary man. It was his fondest dream. Sometimes he wondered if perhaps the penis the doctor had given him was bad. It would have been just like the son of a bitch to have given him a defective one and saved the best for "better" people than him. Sometimes Kyle wondered if he should take a young man and bring him into his basement and surgically remove his cock and balls if they were big enough and visually appealed to him that was. Then he would put them on ice and take them to that damned piss poor doctor and make him do his work right and put them onto Kyle. Ones that worked the way they were supposed to. Kyle had never kidnapped a man before, but how hard could it be. It would have to be a young man, and he would have to be good looking too. Kyle had never had sex with a man, but he often wondered what it might be like. Yes, that would be a lot of fun. He thought about the pool balls too. Only one place to put them, but that might be okay too. He wondered how many he might get up a man's ass. There were a dozen in a bag. He had never gotten all twelve in—but maybe with a man he might be able to do it. Yes, Kyle was sure he had one more item to put on his own personal to do list.

As he continued to drive down the road, getting ever closer to the Idaho state line, Kyle was beginning to smile again. Yes, he decided—life was good. Life was very good indeed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was late in the afternoon when Linh's little Honda raced past the Idaho State Line and snaked its way toward the first Coeur d'Alene exit off Interstate 90. The huge deep blue namesake lake dominated the horizon for what seemed forever. Lovely Cougar Bay stretched off toward the south. The town had become in the latter part of the twentieth century a popular tourist destination, and we could plainly see the Lake Coeur d'Alene Resort tower rising sharply above both the lake and the surrounding mainly one and two story buildings of the city. Originally a fur trading post and later a logging town, Coeur d'Alene had also been a jumping off point for a stampede of gold seekers in the later part of the eighteen eighties, headed off for the mountains of eastern Idaho.

It was to this distant and far off land that famous frontier Sheriff Wyatt Earp retreated after his gunfight fiasco in Tombstone, Arizona in the autumn of 1881. He had made a lot of personal enemies in that part of the country and suddenly developed a deep and abiding interest in seeking gold in the far north, and passed through Coeur d'Alene on his way to Eagle Creek, where the then current rush was taking place. He opened a saloon there, rightly figuring there would be a lot more gold in the miner's pockets than there would be in the ground in pretty short order—and it would also be a hell of a lot easier to get to.

Also in short order both the ground gold and the miner' played out and Wyatt took off again, this time heading farther north yet, all the way to the Klondike. Wyatt never did strike it rich though, and died in virtual poverty in Los Angeles in 1929. He sure live did live a colorful life however, and is remembered in legend to this day, which is certainly a type of gold, to my mind at least.

My own history with the town was limited to visits with Janis during our married years. She loved the place to distraction and called it "a little slice of Heaven." We would always come for the 4th of July fireworks off a big barge out in the lake and we would spend the entire day either at the lake, or shopping the tons of tourist shops located all along Sherman Avenue. We would usually eat at a local dive we loved called The Rustler's Roost, although it had long since been closed. I was wondering if I would remember the antique store where Howard was sending us, but when we pulled up in front of the old and fairly large building just off Sherman Avenue and Douglas, I realized that I had never been in it before. The sign out front, written on the plate glass front window in the old fashioned script of a much earlier era, read simply, "Lucas McCabe and Son, Antiquarians and Watchmakers." It was a shame we had missed this one. Jan, an antique lover of some repute, would have gone nuts in there.

We left the cat contentedly chewing cat food pellets and drinking milk on the back seat of the Honda and headed for the store. When Linh and I pushed open the old wooden front door, the first sensation to assail our senses was the soft sound of a set of door bells announcing our entrance. The second was the faintly musty aroma of the centuries. From nearly wall to wall, the floor of the entire building was covered with antiques and other quaint curiosities. Narrow aisles separated the wares. In addition to the items on the floor, the walls too were festooned with hundreds, if not thousands of ancient artifacts. One immediately inside the door and just to the left, caught my eye. It was a small Indian girl's dress, very gaudy in its bright coloration and decoration. Mostly made of red fabric, it also sported a fair amount of silver and turquoise accoutrements. The sign underneath the glass display case said that it had been worn by a Native American girl in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show in the early 1890's. The tag also stated the price—a cool fifteen thousand dollars. I could only marvel at what must be the total value of McCabe's inventory.

Despite the door bells, no one had come to greet us, so Linh and I made our way toward the rear of the store, where Howard had said the watch repair shop would be. Sure enough, there in the southeast corner was a cramped cubbyhole of a watch shop with a large glassless bay window type opening and counter. Above the opening was a large curved mirror that allowed the occupant of the shop to see out into the store for some distance. Looking into it, I could clearly see the front door and large front window, and the traffic moving out on Douglas Street. Behind the counter were several old fashioned wooden racks of tiny watch parts and repair tools. There was also a small room to the side partitioned off with a cheap drape stretched across the door with an equally cheap tension rod. The local flea-bag motel would have had better. I figured McCabe probably still had the first dollar he ever made. A large magnifier on a pedestal sat on top of a work table. Above the opening into the shop and just to the right of the mirror hung a small wooden plaque. It was handmade and its message was engraved into the material of the sign with a wood burning tool. It quoted a few lines from an old Steven Wilson song called _THE WATCHMAKER_ , detailing the travails of an aging watchmaker and ending with the cryptic phrase, "Time has left its curse upon this place." I didn't doubt that it was true. The entire building was a slice out of the distant past. It was like stepping into a time capsule, and it was beginning to creep me out a little. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck standing up just a bit.

As we neared the counter it became obvious that there was a person sitting behind the magnifying glass. At hearing our approach he stood up and walked around the counter to greet us, and in a moment Mr. Lucas McCabe stood before us with outstretched hand. McCabe was a tall old geezer, still ramrod straight despite his eighty some years. He was thin, with a somewhat drawn face. He didn't much look like he had been indulging in many cheeseburgers and milkshakes lately. He had white hair plastered down close to his head and very neatly combed. Nattily dressed, it was obvious that McCabe was fussy about his appearance, and because of that it was somewhat odd that a small but prominent cowlick sprouted incongruously from the crown of his head.

"Good afternoon Detective O'Brien," he said, his voice slightly reedy.

I shook his hand and was a little surprised at the firmness of his grip. I was at something of a loss to know how to begin, but smiling a little and wanting to be as nice as possible said, "Well you must be a psychic after all Mr. McCabe."

"Not quite," He replied condescendingly. "Howard Carter called a few hours ago and said you were on your way. Carter did not seem to be feeling well and so did not remain on the line for very long. Consequently he did not tell me the purpose of your visit. He also did not tell me that you would be bringing along a lady companion. I do know however, that if Howard thought it was important then it must be. For this reason I have remained here at the shop longer than I normally would have today. Business has been very slow and as it is a beautiful day outside, I generally go for a walk. I would ask you to be brief Detective O'Brien."

McCabe seemed slightly annoyed at us. The feeling was quickly becoming mutual, and my Irish temper flared. "Well Mr. McCabe, I'll try not to keep you from your afternoon constitutional very long. The fact is that I've come here today to try to stop an insane serial killer with a pretty shitty attitude and a hit list to go along with it. I'm _numero uno_ on that list. I replaced Howard Carter for that dubious honor when this madman shot him a couple of times in the chest and almost put him in the morgue. Oh, and just by the way, this whack job apparently has an innocent sixteen year old girl locked up somewhere and is about to start slicing and dicing her. On top of that this freak has killed at least three or four people in the last couple of days, one of them really, really gruesomely and God only knows how many before that. I'm just about out of time and almost completely out of ideas, but hey—what the hell, Carter says drive halfway across the damned country and talk to a geriatric old fart of a watchmaker, and _if_ he likes me he just might, maybe, sort of, kind of, want to help, although to be perfectly honest, looking at you I don't know what the hell you could do anyhow. Unless of course you are an actual honest to God psychic, and from what I've seen in my career those are a hell of a lot more scarce then honest politicians in D.C.—in other words buddy, non-existent. So pops—think you can spare a minute or two?"

Linh put her hand on my arm. "Johnny," she said softly. "What happened to best behavior and diplomacy?"

"This is it!" I half shouted. Stopping before I could say anymore, I took several deep breaths, and calming myself looked directly into Lucas McCabe's still somewhat piercing black eyes and said softly, "So what do you say Mr. McCabe?"

"I can't help you," he said, and turned and walked back around the counter. He sat down where he had been before and resumed his work.

I watched him go and for a minute found myself just standing there stupidly not having an idea in the world of what to do next. At last, I calmly walked around the counter myself and up to McCabe, and taking the killer's note from my pocket placed it on his tabletop directly under his nose.

"Here," I said. "Live with that." I then walked out of his little watch shop and blew by Linh on my way to the front door, saying "Let's get the hell out of here."

Once out to the car and seated, I asked Linh to get out her list we had made of all the people that had come in contact with the case since the beginning. "Let's go over them one by one. We've got to start somewhere." As I said these words a jeep pulled into the store parking lot about five or six spaces away and one of the two young men inside emerged. The taller of the two, a sharp looking black-haired guy probably in his early twenties walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. The younger man was probably seventeen or eighteen at the most and about the same height, but with lighter sandy brown colored hair. He also got out of the jeep and the two of them stood there virtually nose to nose speaking to each other. Obviously it was an intense conversation, although I could only hear a few words. Finally the older guy put his arm around the younger man's shoulder and drawing him close, kissed him on the forehead and said "You know I love you" loud enough for me to hear clearly. The younger guy shook his head affirmatively and walked around to the driver's side and got in. In a moment he started the jeep and drove off.

I was taken a little by surprise and was uncomfortable at having watched what was obviously a lover's conversation, and so I pulled my attention back to Linh. "What have we got?" I asked.

"Not much Johnny," she replied. "Most of the cops at the Community Center Saturday night were long-time veterans with impeccable records. I know many of them pretty well. The only new guy at all is Ronald Blake. He's only been on the force a few months. Seems like a nice enough kid. Single. Never married I believe. No kids. No girlfriend. No boyfriend that I know of either. Keeps to himself mostly, but very friendly. Works a patrol car, but also in the communications center. He is some sort of computer whiz kid. Trying to advance up the ranks. He told me once he was interested in digital detective work, whatever that is. Like I said, not a lot there."

"That's our only suspect?" I asked dejectedly.

"That's about it," she replied. "The only thing there promising at all is his experience in the com center. He would be able to get your cell-phone number is about two minutes flat."

"Yeah, him and about half the computer hackers in town," I said. "Anyway, draw a circle around his name. It's all we got right now." I started to put the key into the ignition and was slightly startled to feel a hand on my shoulder. Looking up I saw the face of Lucas McCabe. His eyes were rimmed with moisture and it was about to start working its way down his cheek. He held the note in his left hand.

"Detective O'Brien," he said. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I hoped and prayed this day would never come, but it has. I can't help you. Like you said, I'm just a feeble old fart and not much good to anyone anymore. But the truth of the matter is that I do know someone who _can_ help. That's why Howard sent you here—so I could meet you first. I have to refer you to him though, and I'm going to do that. He can decide if he wants to help you or not. Since that man is my son, I'm pretty sure I know what his answer will be. He's never said no to anyone in need in his life that I know of. Please Detective O'Brien, you and your lady friend come back inside and meet my son Matthew."

"Thank you. Please call me Johnny, Mr. McCabe. All my friends do. This is Officer Linh Zhou of the Bellevue, Washington Police Department and my special assistant on this case. The old lady in the back seat is Chi-Chi the cat. We tried giving her a badge but she ate it. Do you happen to be a cat lover Mr. McCabe?

"Lucas," he said. "And yes I am—very much. She looks much too old and porcine to be chasing serial killers around the state, so let's bring her in too and see if she gets along with Sammy, our equally old dog. Sammy loves all creatures great and small, human, canine or feline, although he seems to be constantly surprised by the fact that they do not always love him back."

The three of us returned to the shop. Linh and I stood just inside the front door and next to the large plate glass front window, while Lucas secured and locked the door and turned over the welcome sign so that it read—Closed, please call again. He took Chi-Chi from Linh's arms and put the cat down to wander the store at will, and she went off apparently in search of a snack. I wondered vaguely where Sammy was, but figured if they met somewhere among all this stuff we would be sure to know about it. Chi-Chi was not one to suffer in silence. This time there was no need for us to return to the rear of the store as I saw a guy making his way to the front. I was also surprised to see that it was the very same young man I had observed in the parking lot talking with his friend. As he approached us with his hand outstretched, Lucas said "Johnny and Linh, I would like to introduce you to my son Matthew Mason McCabe."

He shook my hand and then turned and did the same with Linh. "Please call me Matt, Mr. . ." His voice trailed off.

"O'Brien, Matt. Detective Johnny O'Brien of the Bellevue, Washington Police Department." Nodding toward Linh, I said "and this is Officer Linh Zhou, special assistant on this case. Please just call me Johnny."

"Nice to meet you both," Matt responded. "And how is it that I can help you?"

"If you don't mind Matt, I'd like to make a long story short, as time is of the essence here." Reaching over and taking the killer's note from Lucas, I handed it to Matt and as he started to read it, I looked him over a little and started to size him up.

He appeared to be in his early twenties, with strikingly good looks. Probably six feet tall, give or take an inch or so, with a slender but very good athletic build—like a college quarterback. He had been put together well—and I don't mean with spare parts either. As he read and re-read the note, he looked up at me once or twice and I noticed in particular his absolutely piercing shiny black eyes. They would almost seem to bore a hole through you. His hair was jet black, and just like his father, plastered down close to his head. Also just like his father, a cowlick sprouted up from the crown of his head. It was readily apparent they were related. Unlike his father however, Matt was not such a fussy dresser. He wore a simple blue tee-shirt, faded Levi jeans and white tennis shoes. The jeans had belt loops, but he was not wearing a belt. I got the impression that he could be a little bit of an odd-ball, just like his dear old papa, when I notice that he not only had on a conventional wristwatch, but also sported a pocket watch. I could see the gold chain dangling from the watch pocket of his jeans and its clear outline. That's okay I thought. Odd is fun most the time.

I am an absolutely one hundred per cent heterosexual man, but even I had to admit that I would notice this kid walking down the street. Damned shame too I thought, that he was so obviously gay and in a relationship with the other young man I had seen a few minutes before. This guy would break a few girl's hearts when they found out what his deal was. All of that meant nothing to me of course. I couldn't care less about anyone's orientation and would be willing to accept any help at all from this guy even if he had a fetish for lamp posts.

Matt stopped reading and looked up. He didn't say a single word but just stared at me with those black shining eyes. He was obviously waiting for me to take the lead.

"Well Matt," I started, "What do you think? I have to admit that when Howard Carter sent me over here it was to see a Lucas McCabe. He didn't mention you at all. I didn't know about you until just a few minutes ago. I was surprised at your age. Frankly, Lucas would appear to be closer to a grandfather than a father to you. If you don't mind my asking, how old are you anyway?"

"I'm twenty-two," Matt responded. "But trust me when I tell you that I'm a very old soul." If Howard sent you here then you're in a tight spot. He wouldn't have done it otherwise. I'm guessing you need information and you need it fast. How much of the three days specified in this note have gone?"

"Almost the entire first one," I said. "What is it you do Matt?"

"I see things," Matt said. "And I gather information."

"So you are a psychic then. Listen Matt—I'm going to say this real nice and not get bent out of shape again. I'm sorry I chewed on your dad and I won't do it to you. I guess I knew this was going to be the case even before I got here. Howard always believed in that stuff. It was one of his real weak spots when it came to police work, and it was unprofessional. Matt, you seem like a nice kid and your father or grandfather or whatever he is seems real nice too. But I'm sorry, I just don't have time to go down that particular road again. I've been there and done that, and it's never come to anything. Frankly, I just don't have the time to waste. I've got a girl here with her life hanging in the balance. She's probably going to die, and she's probably going to die a death I wouldn't wish on the worst person who ever lived. If I don't do everything possible, with real, scientific, standard police work to find her and save her, then I have to face myself in the mirror every morning for the rest of my life. Most days that's tough enough just as it is, even without her death on my conscience. So Matt, thanks a lot. . . But I've got to go."

As I turned to go, Matt reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. His grip was not one of a weakling or a sissy.

Matt's voice, already a deep one, went down an octave. "Detective O'Brien, if you walk out that door, that girl is as good as dead and you know it. I really don't care what you think of Howard Carter or his beliefs, or for that matter what you think of me or my father either. But Carter's been around for a long time, and quite a bit longer than you. He is the son of a man whose water you couldn't carry—I assure you of that, Detective O'Brien. Further, I absolutely guarantee you that he has seen more and knows more on this particular subject than you could ever imagine possible. So unless you want to be complicit with the murder of this young woman, why don't you give me five minutes of your time for me to make my case? You _do_ have five minutes, don't you?"

As my dear old da would have said, you could have cut the silence with a knife. "Okay," I said resignedly. "Why the hell not?"

"Follow me then," Matt said, and started toward the back of the store and the watch shop. Lucas followed, grinning openly and shaking his head slightly, then Linh and I. Show time, I thought.

We reached the watch shop with its big mirror. Again I could easily make out the cars on Douglas. The traffic flow had slowed as afternoon wore into evening. Matt pointed out the side room with its cheesy cloth curtain. "Mr. O'Brien. That room over there is where Madame smoke and mirrors—me that is, am going to do my work. I would like you to give me two minutes after I pull back that curtain and enter the room. It is very small. There are absolutely no electronic gadgets of any type in there whatsoever, as you will see when I enter. I would like you to ask me a question. Make it something that _no one_ on this earth but you would know the answer to. Something from your own past. Something long buried, and buried deep. Just give me one question—I get all confused if you make it too tough, so have some mercy on me please."

"Okay pal," I said patronizingly, "I've got two minutes for a good show. My mother had a pet name for me when I was about four or five years old. You go back there and rub your crystal balls and tell me that name and I'm a believer. How simple is that?" Lucas was staring down at his shoes now, his expression unreadable. Matt gave me a curt look and walked behind the counter, pulled back the curtain on what appeared to be an absolutely empty broom closet sized room, and stepping inside started to close the curtain behind himself again. Before he did however, he leaned out and said to me, "That's crystal _ball_ , Detective O'Brien. Singular. Just one." Then he closed the curtain.

He was actually out in less than thirty seconds. He emerged, and neatly and fastidiously closed the curtain back up again behind himself, just as any great showman would do to tease the audience. The phrase from OZ occurred to me— _"pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."_ Then he slowly walked back around the counter, faced me directly, and with a slight smile on his face began to speak.

My life would never be the same again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Bothell, Washington

Monday evening – July 16, 2013

Nora Davis had fretted the day away since getting the call from Detective O'Brien that her brother Howard Carter had been shot in the line of duty. He had told her not to worry—that it looked like Howard was going to pull through all right. Detective O'Brien had also asked her to not come to the hospital in Bellevue, but to stay home and set up a sick room at her place for her brother to recover. It was, Detective O'Brien had said, not safe for him to stay at Overlake. It seemed, he had told her, that the shooter might be willing to try again. O'Brien also asked her to keep it completely quiet and not be concerned when she heard on the news that Howard had passed away. He said they were going to fake Howard's death to help ensure his safety.

Nora was no stranger to police and the way they worked. Her late husband Dick had been one of them for nearly thirty years, until he had passed away from lung cancer. Oddly he had never smoked a cigarette in his life. His doctor had explained that it was that way sometimes. "The luck of the draw," he had called it. To Nora it was a plenty unlucky draw, as she had spent the last several years here alone at Bothell after retiring as a pediatric nurse for over twenty years at Overlake Hospital. So when the call had come in from O'Brien, she had taken it pretty much all in stride and set up the room. Her brother might not be a baby, but Nora figured she probably knew well enough how to keep him alive if that proved to be possible at all.

She was a little shocked and pleasantly surprised at the same time when the hearse showed up at her door a few hours later. It was safe to do so because Nora live on a dead end lane with only two other houses near. Both were well shielded from hers by both distance and trees. The pleasant part came from the fact that her brother looked far better than she had expected him to, or could have hoped for. There was no doubt in her mind whatsoever that he was going to live, and Nora thanked God for that. Dick might have been gone several years now, but she was still in no mood for another funeral so soon. To her it had all seemed as though it were only yesterday.

The driver of the hearse was none other than Del Peters, an old buddy of Howards. They had entered police work together back in the mists of time. Peters was getting ready to retire at just about the time Carter made Chief in Bellevue, and Carter had talked him out of it and asked him to come west and join him in Bellevue. Carter had told him that any police department needed at least two good honest men, and while Howard wasn't all that sure about himself sometimes—he sure as hell was about Peters. Peters had accepted the invitation and had been an asset to the department ever since. He had become Carter's right hand man and confidant in most all matters pertaining to the department, and Howard said repeatedly that bringing him on board was probably the best decision he had made since becoming Chief.

Peters helped the nurse from Overlake get Howard inside the house and into the spare bedroom. Nora was happy to see that Howard was mostly able to get himself up and off the gurney and into a wheelchair, but then he had always been a man of considerable strength. O'Brien had explained to her that he had been shot with armor piercing bullets and therefore the wound channels were very narrow. But still—to see Howard doing this well so short a time after being shot twice with _anything_ was nothing short of miraculous.

Peters and the nurse stayed around long enough to get the sick room even better set up. Nora was putting him into her second bedroom. It was the one that doubled as her office, although it still had a bed she used for occasional company. They brought in an oxygen concentrator in case Howard needed it at some point, although it was beginning to look like that would not be necessary. There were also bandages for dressing changes and other items that might be needed. Peters brought Nora up to speed on the situation and then said that he needed to get the nurse back to the hospital and himself back to headquarters, so had taken off. Peters left her with a hug and best wishes. He said he didn't know how long Carter might have to lay low, but if anything was needed whatsoever, she was to use Peter's private cell phone number. Peters promised he could have police and or emergency personnel at her door within mere minutes if needed.

For several hours after the departure of the hearse, the house lay in nearly absolute silence as Carter fell asleep almost immediately after his tiring ride north from the hospital. Nora, sitting just outside his room, could plainly hear his faint snoring. Another good sign she thought. She was just beginning to think about what she could make for dinner that Howard would be able to handle well if he woke up and had just about decided on chicken soup when Carter yelled out.

Nora jumped so hard she almost fell out of her chair. The first thought to enter her mind was that perhaps Howard was having a heart attack. They were common enough after a trauma like the one he had suffered. The second was that the person who had shot Howard had already found him here and was perhaps coming in through the window. With that in mind Nora grabbed the first weapon-like thing she saw, which happened to be the fireplace poker, and charged into the bedroom.

Instead of an intruder however, she encountered Carter sitting up on the edge of the bed and trying to stand. Nora rushed to his side and not so gently forced him back down. "What the heck are you doing?" she almost screamed at him. "Do you want to break loose every stitch they put in you and get the bleeding started again? What the matter with you anyway? What kind of idiot would do such a thing?"

"Okay, okay. I'm back down again. Unhand me, woman."

Nora stood back eyeing him warily, ready to pounce again should it be needed.

Carter was calming down now. "Nora, how long have I been asleep?" he asked.

"About three hours. It's okay. It's what you need right now to get better. Where did you think you were going anyway dummy?"

"I love you too Nora. I was trying to get up and get to your computer on that desk over there. I've got some work to do."

The only work you've got to do today is to stay in that bed and get well. And I promise you dear brother, if you try to get out of it again I'm going to hit you with this poker so hard that by comparison your gunshot wounds are going to look like you got them in a playground scuffle. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Perfectly," Carter answered. "Do you think you could possibly drag that computer and desk over here close to the bed?"

"What do you need a computer for anyway," Nora asked.

"Because someone in my department is no good, that's why." Carter responded. "It's been troubling me since I got shot. This crazy killer is always one step ahead of us. He seems to know what everybody is doing and where they are going to be. Even who is wearing a vest and who isn't. Someone is controlling him, and I think they are controlling him from the inside. Problem is I don't know who and I don't know why."

"Her," Nora said.

"What?"

"Her. Your shooter is a woman. Peters told me before he left. The blood test results are in. Your killer is a big woman with a butch haircut. They got an APB out on her right now."

"You've got to be shitting me," Carter said.

"You watch your mouth Howard Carter. This is a Christian house. You know I don't allow cursing in here."

"Okay—sorry Nora. Anyway, I want to get on-line and link up with the headquarters computer and the HR department. We've had maybe a dozen new hires within the last year or so. I can research their histories from right here and do some background checks. It's about the only thing I can do from this bed that might be able to help O'Brien. Come on Nora, what do you say?"

"Another news flash brother. It's Johnny O'Brien and Linh Zhou. She and O'Brien are on the case together. And they took your cat with them for some reason. Peters again. He's very talkative."

"Why the hell—oops sorry—heck would they take my cat? Are they going to have her claw the killer's eyes out when they find her?"

"Well, knowing Chi-Chi maybe they figured she'd eat the killer."

Carter laughed a little then. It didn't hurt so much now. "Linh Zhou? Her and O'Brien? You know Nora, that's not such a bad combination. You don't know her, but she's a heck of a fine police officer. With Johnny to show her the ropes, she could be dynamite."

"I thought you hated O'Brien."

"That was a long time ago Nora—yesterday to be exact. We've worked that out. We're pals again."

"About time too. You two were always the best of friends. . . Before Jan that is. You know he didn't have a thing to do with that woman leaving you Howard."

"Yeah Nora, I know that now. I apologized. Now how about getting that computer over here?"

"No. You still couldn't work it without leaning out over the bed and straining your sutures. I will get you my laptop though. Progress marches on Howard, and I finally bought one since the last time you were here. Got wireless internet too. Just give me a minute."

Nora returned in a few minutes with the laptop computer and set it up in front of Howard. In a few seconds the screen came up and in a few seconds more Howard was on-line.

"I've got you plugged into an outlet by the side of the bed Howard, so you can spend as much time as you want on the computer and your battery won't go dead. I'll keep it plugged in too as long as you promise to not get out of bed without calling me and to eat some chicken soup."

"I promise Nora. Thanks."

"Don't get any soup on my computer either—I'm still keeping the poker handy."

"Okay, okay," Carter responded, waving her out of the room. With a few strokes of the keyboard he was linked into the Police Department's mainframe computer and with a few more he entered his personal password. Carter then navigated to the Human Resources Department and started down the list of police officers employed by the Bellevue force. Carter was aware that his entrance into the police computer system could be noticed at headquarters, but he decided it was worth the risk. Only an Officer very high up, or someone in the communications center would be likely to notice anything, and very unlikely at that. Definitely worth the risk.

Carter was sure that he would be able to turn something up that might be able to help Johnny and Linh out in the field. He wondered if Johnny had made it to Coeur d'Alene by now. Looking at the clock he decided that he probably had, and wondered how that meeting had gone. Johnny would have to get through Lucas to meet Matt, and Johnny's hot head and sharp tongue were always a concern. The fact that Carter had sent him would go a long way with both Lucas and Matt though. He had not seen either of them for quite a few years now. He and Matt went back a long, long way, and he knew that if there was anyone who could help them it would be him.

In a few minutes Nora and the chicken soup arrived. Carter stopped and set the lap top aside so as not to get any splatters on it. Dutifully starting on the soup, the first food he had had for a while that didn't come out of a tube, he had to admit it tasted really good.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Coeur d'Alene, Idaho

Monday – July 16, 2013

"Mr. John Albert O'Brien. Born July 3, 1971, in Austin Texas," Matt began. "Just John. Not Jonathan without the 'H', or Johnathan with the 'H', but Just John—the way your father liked it. Your father was basically a nice man with some real serious character flaws. A construction worker by trade, his name was John too. Again—just John. He had a bit of a problem with the bottle—and more than a bit of a problem with his marriage. He had enough of the marriage, but not the bottle, and by the time you were ten years old he split. You didn't see him again until you were twenty. You tracked him down on the streets and tried to re-establish a relationship. He told you to go to Hell. He went there first, dying the very next year. Cause—alcoholism. From the look on your face Detective O'Brien, I can tell I am getting a bit more than just warm. Shall I go on?"

The look on my face was one of complete blankness. The color had drained out of it. "Go on kid," I said—"this is your story."

"No, Detective O'Brien. . . This is _your_ story. "You and your mom didn't do too well after he took off. She cleaned other people's houses and took in laundry for a living. It would age her fast and kill her young. You always blamed yourself for that, as she struggled to pay to get you into college after you graduated from high school. You did very well in the Austin Community College though, and after a year were able to transfer to the State University on a scholarship, and finally made it into Harvard a year later the same way. Harvard—or more exactly, being a 'Harvard Man', was always your dream, wasn't it? Once again you excelled, leaving there with a PHD in comparative religious studies. Why—you're a man of God. You never told a soul in your life that little piece of personal info, did you?

Bet you didn't mention either the girl you knocked up in your senior year or the child she was carrying. Too bad she aborted the pregnancy—the child would have been your son had he lived. You might have stopped that abortion too if you had been anywhere to be found—your girlfriend _did_ come looking for you. But you weren't to be found, were you? You were out on a drunk with the boys, weren't you? Sheila was her name. She committed suicide a year after that by slitting her wrists in her bathtub. You found her body didn't you? Just a little too late to do anything about it. You always wondered just how much you had to do with that suicide, didn't you Detective O'Brien?"

He was firing off questions and accusations at me like a prosecuting attorney. "You bastard!" I snarled as I cocked my fist and lunged at him. Only Linh stopped me by darting between us. I was surprised to see that he didn't back up, back down, duck, or break eye contact with me in any way, shape or form during this time at all. He just kept infernally smiling. I had underestimated this kid completely. Far from the sissy I had at first thought he was, he was turning out to be one tough and mean son-of-a-bitch. He was killing me—and none too softly at that.

"Shall I go on Detective O'Brien? Or have you heard enough? Shall I tell you about the police department years? After college you tried writing ponderous and scholarly religious tomes. The goodness of God and the mercy of Jesus and all that stuff—remember? Trouble was—no one wanted to read them. You quickly went flat-butt broke. To make ends meet you got a job on the police force. You were good at it too—except for the fact that it drained the last little bit of your Christian faith from you. Something about man's inhumanity to man in your face every single day will do that—right? Even so, apparently you liked dealing with people that had even bigger problems than you did. You made Detective faster than just about anyone ever had, and would probably still be doing that today but for your little shoot-out with the eight-ball killer. Oh yeah—that's right isn't it? No one's supposed to know about _that_ juicy little tidbit either, are they?"

"So you took a slug in the spine and went out early with a bad back. Unemployed and out of luck again, you turned to your three favorite old pursuits—boozing, womanizing and writing—in that order. Didn't have enough money to support the first two though. So this time you created a fictional character out of thin air—or maybe not so much as a character you saw looking back at you every morning in the mirror—the man you always wanted to be. You made him what you never were however, a successful detective with a solid track record of solving crimes and saving lives. You had done precious little of either in your own career, had you? This time the books sold a lot better though. They were lazily written books for lazy readers, but this time the reading public responded—they just _loved_ Jack McGuire. Couldn't get enough of him. You became a millionaire several times over. Didn't help though to save the life of the one and only woman you really ever loved and were totally faithful to—Janis Whitfield. I won't go into that. I think you've heard enough."

"Except for one little thing sonny boy," I snarled again. "You didn't answer my question. You didn't tell me my dear old ma's pet name for little Johnny. Bet you don't know that one, do you?" I had stopped thinking about hitting him and was seriously considering going for my gun instead. "Most of what you've told me up to now you could have learned from Carter. I always did share too much with him. Let's see the grand finale of your little freak show. Tell me that name damn you!" I snapped, as Linh held me back.

"Love to 'little Johnny boy'—but there isn't one. That was a trick question. You mother never had a pet name for you. Your men at the Spokane Police Department did though. Do you happen to remember what it was? They took it from the name plaque on your office door. It said 'Detective J. A. O'Brien'. Your men all said the initials stood for Jack Ass. I would have to say I agree entirely."

This time Linh wasn't going to stop me. Breaking away from her I lunged at Matt again and swung for his head with everything I had. All I had wasn't nearly enough though as he simply took a step back and I missed him completely and lost my balance. I would have fallen over too if Matt hadn't recovered instantly and reached out and grabbed me under my arm. Instead of simply steadying me however, he pulled me back sharply toward him as though I were a rag doll. I was amazed at his strength. I thought for a split-second that he was going to let _me_ have one in the face, but instead he simply jerked me in close to him, black eyes nearly burning out of his head, and canine teeth showing as his lips curled back into a snarl of his own. Speaking in a clipped and staccato voice and directly into my face from only inches away he said—"Detective O'Brien, I'm going to go look for your serial killer now. Care to join me?"

I finally regained my balance and got myself set on my feet properly again. I tugged at my sport coat to bring it right way around, and satisfied that I was looking okay answered him—remembering that I had said I'd deal with Satan himself if I needed to—"Don't mind if I do. Where we gonna look?"

"Spokane of course," he answered. "Isn't that where you left him last time?"

With that he turned and headed for the front door, and exited just as the white Ford Bronco pulled into the lot. I saw it too at the same time, reflected in the big curved mirror. Trying to process all of the information that had been thrown at me in the past several minutes, this last extra piece was almost too much as I tried to get my head around this latest development and get my feet moving. I fumbled for my pistol. It seemed like the slow-motion action that one experiences in a nightmare. I started to run and was nearly to the door, gun finally drawn, when my stupid legs went out from under me, my spinal cord seizing up again. I hit the floor hard, and laying there unable to move, listened to the sound of gunfire outside as the glass in the front of the building began to shatter and blow in. The big thirty caliber rifle was back in action.

I must have blacked out for a few seconds, as the next thing that I remembered was Matt hauling me up off the floor and half dragging me toward the rear of the store. At this point he must have thought I'd been shot. He did not appear to be injured in any way that I could see, and I wondered how he had been able to avoid the hail of bullets and get back into the store so fast. The shooting had stopped now and I vaguely wondered where the shooter was, and more importantly what she was preparing to do next.

My question was answered a few seconds later when a giant blast rocked the entire building and the front section of the store simply disappeared. Flying glass, antiques and other debris, most of it in the form of wood splinters and nails sailed across the display floor area and many of them imbedded themselves into the back wall of the store. The source of the explosion was soon apparent as the acrid odor of burning propane assailed my nostrils. Several small fires were being pretty effectively doused by the buildings modern sprinkler system. For a moment I was transported back in my mind to the explosion and fireball of the Spokane warehouse in 2001. Then it had been Howard Carter who had carried me to safety. This time it was Matt McCabe who had dragged me out of harm's way. Having my life saved by someone else was started to get to be a habit, and it was as annoying as hell.

Matt had thrown himself over me in the last second before the explosion and was shielding me with his body. As he began to move, it was starting to look like we had both survived quite nicely. While the roar of the blast subsided, we could hear the sound of tires screeching as the big white Bronco peeled back out of the lot. I wondered how long some poor smuck out there had to live if she went shopping for another vehicle.

Matt raised his head from off my chest where it had ended up when he flopped on top of me and asked if I was all right. "Yes," I nearly shouted, as my eardrums struggled to return to normal. "Get off me you son-of-a- bitch. I'm still pissed at you." Remembering Carter and not wanting to have to make amends another twelve years down the road, I quickly added, "And thanks Matt."

"Don't mention it," he replied. "Are you shot?"

"No holes," I replied.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

Struggling wobbly to my feet I replied, somewhat defiantly, "Guess I can. Let's go check on the others.

We made our way to the back of the store through the rubble. Many rather heavy antiques had been rudely rearranged, and we had to push several large items out of our path. Finally we reached the area immediately in front of the watch shop. It was largely undamaged by either the bullets or the blast, but the heartbreaking scene which met us would forever be indelibly printed on my mind.

Lucas was lying on his back, obviously breathing his last, a gaping chest wound pouring blood onto the floor. He was already in the agonal breathing stage, indicating only a few more minutes at best to live. Linh was kneeling at his side, covered in blood and splatter herself. I raced to her side.

"Linh, where are you hit?" I nearly screamed, frantically looking her over for bullet holes.

"I'm not," she replied in a dead tone. "Mr. McCabe was hit in the chest by one of the first rounds. He went down and I fell on top of him. It was too late. I was too late." The way she said it, with the emphasis on the word "I", made me realize that she would always blame herself for his death, even though she knew in her heart there was nothing she could have done. That's the way good cops are made. It's hard wired into them. It's in their _DNA._

I pulled my phone out of my pocket to call 911, but saw that it had been smashed in my fall to the floor. I also realized that no call would be necessary. The sirens of emergency vehicles were even now growing louder as they approached the scene, probably called by neighbor merchants.

Matt had come over too and was now kneeling beside his father. Lucas's eyes locked with Matt's, a faint smile played across his mouth. He was beyond speaking at this point. Matt looked down at his father almost dispassionately, his hard and very dry eyes revealing nothing. That wasn't entirely true either I realized. His eyes did reveal something, and it was pretty ugly. There was no hint of shock, loss or mourning in his gaze. His look was only one of curiosity and _anticipation._

I could stand it no longer and kneeled beside Lucas myself. Looking at Matt with as steely eyes as I could muster, I said to him in an almost whisper—"Say something to him you jerk. You're father's passing."

Matt's eyes flashed to mine for an instant and then back to Lucas.

"Goodbye Lucas," he said softly. And then he added something below his breath, something nearly inaudible to me. Watching his lips move however, I was pretty sure that he said—"Take me with you."

Lucas looked up at his son wordlessly, but I could have sworn that his faint smile grew just a bit larger. Perhaps he was seeing other realms. At last, after another second or two, his body relaxed and the light went out of his eyes. Lucas McCabe was dead.

I could hear the cops coming through what was left of the front door, guns drawn. They would be the first inside, the firemen and paramedics second after the police sounded the all clear. I knew that we three survivors stood a pretty good chance of getting ourselves shot in the next few seconds if I didn't play my cards right, so after relieving Linh of her pistol I stood up and in a loud voice said, "This is Officer John O'Brien of the Bellevue, Washington Police Department. I am here with three other people. I am armed. I am going to be stepping forward with my hands in the air, and my police identification in my right hand."

With that I did step forward and into the muzzles of four different Coeur d'Alene police officers pistols. They were all trained directly at my chest. One of them looked like he was probably a rookie and his gun hand seemed to be shaking a bit. I was starting to wish I had accepted Howard's offer of a bullet proof vest after all.

The officer in charge stepped up to me and quickly patted me down, removing all four of my guns—the little Smith from its shoulder holster, Howard's Glock from my waistband, and the shooter's SIG and Linh's pistol from my jacket pockets. He handed all of them to another officer standing directly behind him, while keeping his own gun trained directly on me all of the time. Only then did remove the ID from my hand and look it over. Good cop I thought. He was doing his job right.

"You're quite a walking arsenal Detective O'Brien" he said.

Nodding toward what was left of the building, I said "Even so, it seems I was pretty well out gunned."

"Indeed it does," he returned. "Call out the rest of your party. One by one, hands where I can see them."

Linh stepped forward first. I introduced her as another member of the Bellevue Police Department and she produced her ID as well. Then Matt. "This is Matthew McCabe. Co-owner of this establishment and son of Lucas McCabe, who has been killed. He is just behind us on the floor. There are no other injuries that I know of."

"I know Lucas McCabe," he said. "Sorry about your father, son" he said to Matt. Matt nodded his thanks.

"My name is Captain Watters" he said to me. "You in charge of your group?"

"Yeah, guess so," I replied.

"Then you're with me" he said. "Matt and Officer Zhou will be giving their statements down at headquarters. You and I are going to stick around here a while longer while you explain to me exactly what the hell is going on." Turning to Matt he said, "We'll have the paramedics check over Lucas and take him into the hospital. If he has expired the doctor there will do a pronouncement and they will take him on to a funeral home. Do you have you have a preference?"

Matt told Watters that the Orlich's Funeral Home just up Sherman Avenue would be fine.

"Okay O'Brien. Let's talk outside." The fire department had shut off the sprinklers by now, but the interior of the store was a sopping mess.

Walking out into the parking lot now full of about a dozen emergency vehicles, each with its own set of flashing lights, I could see several groups of neighbors and tourists standing across and down the street watching the action with curiosity. It was just beginning to darken now and would soon be full night. Matt and Linh had been taken away in a squad car, and I could see several officers going over Linh's little Honda. It was in pretty good shape, not counting the fact that most of the paint on one side had been almost completely burned off. I would have liked to have seen the expression on her father's face if he could have looked at his car at this moment. Sometimes official police business is a little tough on a set of wheels.

"You might have one of your men check under the car," I said to Watters. "I'm pretty sure they are going to find a little tag along. I'm getting too old and stupid for this line of work I guess. I should have checked myself before we ever left Bellevue. If I had, Mr. McCabe would still be alive right now."

Watters walked over to one of his men and talked to him, and then returned to me. A Couple of minutes later the officer brought us a small package and placed it in Watters hand. He looked it over and then handed it to me. It was a little GPS unit, the kind every police department in the country uses, generally with a court order however.

"So are you looking for this guy, or is this guy hunting you?" Watters asked.

"Seems the latter. It also seems it's been that way since this all began." I answered.

"Guess you had better start at the beginning," Watters said.

"Before I do Captain, I'd like to recommend that you put out an APB on a white Ford Bronco, driven by a burly guy with a sandy brown crew cut. You will also want your men to know that this guy is actually a woman, and that if ever, in the entire history of the world anyone were to be described as armed and extremely dangerous, this chick would be it."

"Will do O'Brien," Watters said as he called another officer over and gave that order. He then motioned me into his own squad car, where I spent the better part of the next hour bring him up to date on the case and all that had been going on.

At the end of our conversation, Watters let out a low whistle. "Two days huh? Man, I don't envy you your job right now. I always thought I wanted to be a homicide detective, but listening to your story, I'm kind of glad I never went for it. What can I do to help Detective O'Brien?"

"Please just call me Johnny, Captain Watters. First, a ride for me and my two compadres over to the resort would be great. I'd like us to spend the night, clean up, sleep and regroup. Going to need some new clothes for Linh and possibly Matt. I've got mine with me if I can get my bag out of the back of the Linh's Honda. Next, I'll need a replacement cell phone with a new and secure number, and last another vehicle. I'd also like to be able to get it as early as possible tomorrow morning. There must be a dealer or two in town."

"Well Johnny, sorry to tell you the bad news, but you're in my jurisdiction now, and here I call the shots. So this is what's going to happen. Your money is no good in this town. You and your friends will spend the night at the Coeur d'Alene Resort at the expense of the city. What Linh and Matt need they will get from the resort shops, again on the cities' dime. I will have personally delivered to you tonight three police department cells phones with one hundred percent secure lines. You will also have a Coeur d'Alene Police Department unmarked squad car to use as you will. It is one I use quite often myself and it's a dandy. All the bells and whistles and some real guts under the hood. There is also a twelve gauge shotgun under the front seat and a 9mm machine pistol in the trunk with plenty of spare ammo. Your maniac may be impressed with some of these features on your next encounter. I can also spare an officer if you want one."

"Thanks Captain. Between Linh and I we'll be alright without your man, but I really appreciate the offer. Matt's no weakling either let me tell you," I said with a laugh. "The kid cut me down to size and shredded me up in about two minutes flat, and then saved my sorry old butt from becoming toasted buns, in the next two minutes after that."

"I really don't know him at all," Watters said. "Just seen him around the shop a few times. My wife is an antique fanatic. Not to say she's old," he hurriedly added. "She going to be bummed that her favorite shop blew up, but I'm set to save a fortune," he added with a smile. "Listen Johnny, it's no good in Washington, but I can get him an Idaho concealed weapons permit and have it to you at the resort within an hour. Might help some give him some bona fides."

"Couldn't hurt," I agreed.

"What else?" Watters asked.

"Just one thing. I have a dear old friend still in that building. I've known her since this morning. Don't know if she's alive or dead, but either way I'd like to get her out."

Watters raised an eyebrow on that one. "Who?" he asked.

"Why Chi-Chi the cat of course," I said. "She may be in the company of Sammy the dog. He belonged to Lucas and Matt."

"Well let's go take a look. I've got a couple of good flashlights right here. If they are alive, we sure don't want to leave them behind."

They were.

Picking our way through the front of the store again, I was surprised to see that the little Indian girl's dress from the Wild West Show had survived. But then it had been in a separate display case all of its own. Neither blast, bullets nor sprinkler water had gotten to it. Considering its high dollar value and historical significance, I asked Captain Watters if he would take it with him when we left for safekeeping. He assured me that he would.

In a minute or two we came upon yet another gut-wrenching scene, and in exactly the same place as the first one just a short time before. In front of the watch shop, just where Lucas had fallen lay a very much alive Sammy. He was a tired looking old guy, probably in his tenth year or so. He was a mutt, built in the Labrador mold, but with longer blond hair. He looked up at me with sad eyes. His front paws were just touching the edge of the dark pool of blood. He looked as though his heart were breaking. Beside him was an equally alive Chi-Chi, her stomach for once forgotten. She and Sammy had apparently become fast friends.

I expected trouble getting Sammy away from the scene of his master's death, but when I called to him he arose immediately and with one last look back came to me. Chi-Chi followed him. They were both pretty dirty and water soaked.

"No worries," Watters said. "The resort has a pet salon."

"On the city again?" I joked.

"Yup," Watters replied. "I'm going to have a very interesting expense report to present to the City Fathers this month"

"Don't worry," I laughed. "This one's one me. You've been a real pal."

"You might not think so," Watters said, "if you knew how close I came to shooting you first, and asking questions after. We don't get a lot of this type of excitement in this little burg."

"Well you did just fine. You and your men are first rate Captain."

"Thanks Johnny. I really appreciate that."

With that we gathered up the display case and our small zoo, and loading them into the back seat of Watters' squad car, headed off to the Coeur d'Alene Resort, where we were to meet Linh and Matt.

"So you're sure you want to take Matt along with you and Linh?" Watters asked. "He's not a professional you know. What good can he do you?"

"Not exactly sure yet," I answered, "But he was the person we came here to see. We were just starting to have a really good time and enjoy each other's company when Lady battering-ram coat-tailed us in and broke up the party. According to Lucas, Matt knows things."

"A psychic then," Watters said without expression or comment.

"Maybe, and maybe not," I replied. "He gave me a demonstration. If he's a fake, he sure as hell is a damned good one. I know one thing for sure. I think I'd rather leave all the weapons behind and go with just him if I had to make a choice."

"Well you've got good gut instincts," Watters said. "That's about the only thing that going to really help you find that girl in time. You got a plan?"

"Just what you said. Go for the girl and forget the daughter of Godzilla and her handler back in Bellevue for the time being. Once again we'll be playing defense."

We pulled up in front of the resort and Watters helped get my gang into the lobby. He then went to reception and set things up for us. Matt and Linh were already there and were seated at the bar talking quietly with each other. Matt looked okay but Linh was a real mess. The bartender eyed her warily. They were both drinking soft drinks. I was impressed with their self-control when it came to booze. Now if I could just keep mine.

Watters shook my hand as he prepared to leave.

"One of my men will be here within an hour with the items we discussed," he said. "I'll send your bag from the Honda too. If I don't see you in the morning, best of luck to you and good hunting. May God be with you and keep you all safe."

I shook his hand and told him thanks. With that he disappeared. Pet Salon personnel arrived and took Chi-Chi and Sammy in tow for their clean, fluff and fold.

I then walked up to the front desk and somewhat modified the arrangements that Captain Watters had made for us. He had asked for three rooms. I changed it to two. No harm saving the city a little money I decided. Linh was going to have her privacy, and I suspected, a pretty good cry. Matt on the other hand, was going to have to share a room with me. Didn't know about him, but I for damned sure wasn't all that tired or sleepy. I felt I could stay up for half the night if I needed to, and I thought I might.

Matt and I were going to have a talk.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lake Coeur d'Alene Resort

Coeur d'Alene, Idaho

Monday evening – July 16, 2013

It was getting pretty late in the evening by the time Linh and Matt finished their shopping for new clothes at the resort stores. Each had purchased enough to last for two or three days, plus the necessary toiletry items. My overnight bag had been delivered just as Captain Watters had said it would be. The unmarked squad car was parked outside in the lot and the keys were in my hand, along with three new and safe cell phones. The Officer who brought these items also handed me a discreet looking black leather gym bag. Inside were the four weapons that Watters had taken off me back at the antique store. My little Smith, Linh's service pistol and Howard's Glock were unchanged, as they had not been fired. The shooter's Sig however, had been stripped, cleaned, lubricated, and refilled with the same type armor piercing ammo that the shooter had used, plus one in the chamber. Watters had also sent along two extra magazines for the pistol, filled to the brim, and an entire extra box of shells as well. It was one mean little beast now.

"Does Captain Watters own a gun shop?" I asked the officer. "That was mighty fast."

"He doesn't, but his brother in law does," the man replied. "Watters is definitely into having a well-stocked gun cabinet."

"I'm starting to really like your Captain," I replied.

"Yeah, we do too. He's one in a million," the officer agreed, handing me the newly minted Idaho concealed weapons permit for Matt. Remembering my encounter with the killer and the fact that she had been wearing a bullet proof vest, I intended to give the SIG to Matt. Being less familiar with guns than either Linh or I, he could aim for the chest and still be effective. Me, I intended to aim for this lady killers head. I would make sure that Linh understood fully what we were going up against and would follow suit.

Finally we collected our menagerie from the pet salon and started up to our rooms. Linh's room was going to be next door to ours with an interior access door between. Smart, I thought—Watters was thinking of everything. We dropped Linh off at hers and saw her inside. Then I opened up the door to our room and motioned Matt in with a nod of my head. He regarded me warily. Sammy and Chi-Chi did the same.

Inside, I dropped my bundles on one of the two beds. "Okay buddy, I've got the bed by the window. You've got the other. You hit the shower first while I stand guard. Then we reverse it. This is yours for the duration," I said, handing him the SIG. "How much instruction do you need with it? We're going to have to be on a learning fast tract here."

Matt took the pistol from me and immediately pulled back the slide about a half an inch or so to determine that the chamber was loaded. Then he expertly popped the magazine release and checked its contents. Satisfied with what he saw, he reinserted the magazine with just the right amount of force and stuck the pistol into the waistband at the back of his jeans. Dangling his arms at his sides for a moment, he went for the gun and drew it out smoothly and fast. He sighted down his arm as he cradled the pistol in a two handed gunfighter's stance and pointed it at the easy chair near the foot of the bed, carefully leaving his index finger outside the trigger guard as he did so—all exactly according to the book. Then he tossed the pistol casually on his bed, and turning to me said, "Not that much—armor piercing bullets huh? Nice. See you in twenty minutes," and headed into the bathroom.

With that I was left standing in the middle of the room with the two fur balls, mildly shaking my head. I was all out of surprised looks when it came to this guy. When he emerged in exactly twenty minutes, he was clean, shaved, combed and wearing a set of brand new matching light blue pajamas with stripes and dark brown fuzzy house slippers—just like grandpa used to have. The cowlick, despite the best efforts of hot water, shampoo and comb, still stood stubbornly at attention. The pocket watch had been transferred from the watch pocket of his jeans to the shirt pocket of his jammies.

I was wrong about the surprised looks.

"Nice getup," I commented as I passed him on my way to the shower. After about forty five minutes of soaping and soaking I emerged, dressed in my usual night time garb—white tee and boxer shorts, bare feet. I felt underdressed. Matt was lying on his bed, upper back and head resting against the headboard. He was fully awake. It was now or never.

"Okay pal, let's have it," I said.

"Have what?" he replied innocently.

"What happened back there at the antique store?"

"Well, let's see if I remember correctly. Within thirty minutes of your arrival, the shop was blown to bits and Lucas was shot dead. Did I get that just about right?" Matt asked sarcastically.

"Yeah, you got that part right, but I was talking about right before then. I lied to you. I never told Howard half of that stuff. So how'd you do it? And by the way, how the hell did you get back in the store so fast? You walked out of the door into a hail of bullets, but didn't get a scratch. I checked that door before Watters and I left. It was riddled with holes. Lady wack'em was aiming and shooting to kill and pulling the trigger fast."

Matt was smiling now. "I got back in using my quick wit and a pair of fast feet, that's how. And as for the other, I already told you. I see things."

"You see things, but you're not a psychic. Wanna try again?"

"Psychics know things. I see things. That's the difference Detective O'Brien. What I do is basically a mind trick. I time travel in my head and gather information. The trick kind of condenses and compacts time so it seems as though only a few seconds have passed. Actually it takes a little longer than it seems. Basically I look for information from the past."

"Time traveling in your head—oh, why the hell not? Bottom line, do you think you can help me find this girl?"

Matt answered after taking several seconds to think over his reply. That fact impressed me.

"Yes, I think I can. But I want you to understand that it will not be as easy finding information about your serial killer as it was about you. Compared to him your life is pretty much an open book. Serial killers tend to be a little more circumspect and secretive. It's like playing a game of shadows on a moonless night. It will take longer, and I know that time is of the essence here. Perhaps we should begin tonight."

"Not a chance," I said. "We would do that girl a lot more harm than good right now. Probably get her killed for sure. I'm not about to take the three of us into what may become an all-out fire-fight until we have a good night's sleep. That lady next door has just about had it, in case you haven't noticed."

"That is true. But in case you haven't noticed it Detective O'Brien, there is a whole lot more to that lady cop than you or I know. She'll be ready when the time comes."

I laughed. "Don't have to be a psychic or a mind-traveler to figure that one out. When are you going to start calling me Johnny?"

"When I start to get an idea of whether I like you or not," he replied coolly.

"Oh, you'll have a long wait on that one. I've known some folks my whole life and most of them still can't decide if they like me or not. But if you're worried about me trying to take your head off again like I did back there at the shop, forget it. That's in the past and it will stay there. From here on out to whatever end we come to, we're on a brand new blank page as far as I'm concerned. Look pal—I needed to be slapped, and you did a damned fine job of slapping me—par excellence. You got my attention fast exactly when you needed to. Only you know if you enjoyed ripping my heart out in the process or not."

Matt started to reply, but was stopped by a knocking on the outside door. I figured politely knocking wasn't our killer's style, so did not go for my gun. Matt motioned me that it was okay, saying that he was expecting someone and arose to answer the door. The visitor was none other than the same young man that I had seen with Matt just outside the antique store. Matt opened the door and introduced us.

"Detective O'Brien, this is Sam. He is. . . Matt hesitated a moment and then finished. . . A friend of mine. I called him from the bar downstairs and asked him to bring me something."

Sam came in and handed Matt a rather old and ragged looking brown leather valise, the kind that you just don't see people carry much anymore. It harkened back to an earlier time and I guessed that Matt had probably acquired it from the antique store. The side was monogrammed with raised gold initials. . . MMM. They did not look any newer than the rest of the bag. Matt and Sam talked for a few minutes, mostly about the arrangements for Lucas and for securing the damaged shop, and then Matt escorted him to the door, wrapping his arm around Sam's shoulder as he did so. He told Sam that he would call him in a day or two and not to worry. Sam said he wouldn't, nodded to me and left, this time without the forehead kiss.

"So what can you tell me about our serial killer at this point?" I asked when Matt returned and sat on his bed.

"Absolutely nothing. I haven't exactly had much of an opportunity to focus on him yet."

"Her," I said.

"What?"

"Her. As in female serial killer. The tests on her blood proved it."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"You don't swear very much, do you Matt?"

"Never. Profanity is the last refuge of the feeble mind."

I rolled my eyes on that one. "Matt, you are some piece of work. Was your father perhaps a Vulcan?"

"My father was an Irishman."

"And you don't cuss?" I asked incredulously.

"Sorry, I didn't realize it was an ethnic requirement."

"Probably don't drink either."

"On that one I plead guilty."

"After this is over I'll buy you one," I offered.

"After this is over I'll take it. . . Assuming we are alive to enjoy them that is.

"Yes, assuming that. What's in the bag Matt?"

"Equipment."

"Like wooden stakes and a mallet?"

"Not exactly."

"You have a lot of secrets."

"I have a few. And I'll keep them if it's all the same to you."

"Why were you totally unaffected emotionally when your father died?"

"None of your. . ." He hesitated for a second. . . "Business."

"Guess it's my turn to hit a few nerves."

"Detective O'Brien—you are not my teacher, mentor, father or friend. My business is my own, and that it will stay. As for Lucas—we had what you might call a 'complicated' relationship."

"And how _complicated_ is your relationship with Sam?" I asked.

Matt drew himself up slightly at the question and my inflection. He seemed to be surprised, and a bit taken aback.

"You think I am a homosexual man—don't you Detective O'Brien? I believe the parlance of the day is 'gay', is it not?" He was speaking as if he were an old man. I had never heard anything quite like it before outside of the movies.

"This is some personal business of mine that I _will_ discuss with you Detective O'Brien. I want you to rest easy in your assumptions about me. I am sir, not only not 'gay', but I am also not even in the least bit very happy right at this moment. I find you to be a total boob and a boor, and a complete ignoramus. And further, I think that your men's opinion of you at back the Spokane Police Department was probably very much _understated_.

At this I had to throw my head back and just laugh. "Okay, okay. Cool your jets grandpa. I was just having some fun, and maybe getting a little even. Believe me I couldn't care less who or what you're playing pokey-pokey with in the least little bit. Just having a little tit for tat, that's all."

"My relationship with Sam is probably even more complicated than the one with Lucas," he further protested. "But I assure you Detective O'Brien, all of my prurient interests are focused entirely and solely on members of the opposite gender."

At this I could contain myself no longer and simply lost it and roared in laughter. "Yeah pal, I'll just bet you're a laugh riot at the singles bars," I finally squeaked out. He simply sat there on the edge of the bed giving his very best impression of an offended Mr. Spock. I half expected him to grow pointy ears, and at the thought roared even harder. Finally I had to stop for fear of waking up Linh in the next room. I had to admit however, that this was the best I had felt in a couple of days. Perhaps they are right when they say that laughter is the best medicine.

Finally getting myself under control, I told Matt that I was going to bed. "Better turn in Spock," I said. "Early day tomorrow." Matt shot me another slightly offended and quizzical look and then turned back the covers of his bed and got in. I almost expected him to kneel at the side and say his prayers, but he didn't. After turning out the light, a few seconds elapsed in the dark before I heard him softly say, "Good night Johnny." It was becoming clear that Matt could take it as well as dish it out. And I had regained some territory.

"Good night Matt," I replied. Baby steps, I thought. Baby steps. I started to giggle a little again, but quickly stifled it. Looking across the room in the near total darkness, I could just make out Sammy and Chi-Chi curled up together on the floor. At least some of us were getting along just fine I thought, starting to snicker a little once more. Finally turning on my side and burying my head in my pillow, I was sound and fast asleep within probably less than a minute.

As darkness settled into the mountains and forests of northern Idaho near the Canadian border, the faint outline of the white Ford Bronco disappeared into the trees. Kyle piled up additional boughs and branches of pine on the hood and roof to further disguise it. No longer needing it and knowing that every cop in the state would be looking for the vehicle, it was better to ditch it now than run the risk of discovery and a shoot-out with the police. There would be no winning that one. Kyle knew he would be outnumbered and would lose badly. After shooting up and bombing the antique store in Coeur d'Alene, he had sped directly out of town and up into the panhandle of the state. There, just past a little post office and general store in a tiny hamlet named Sparks, he pulled the Bronco off the road and back several hundred feet into the darkening trees. It would be easy enough to pick-up another vehicle when he was ready. But first he needed to contact his brother.

The phone rang five times before his brother picked it up. "I think I got them all," he said simply into the phone.

The voice of his brother that came back to him was not one of joy. "You did not. You managed to turn about half of the antique shop into toothpicks and kill one doddering old man in his eighties. In the process, O'Brien, Zhou and the old man's son escaped completely unharmed. Very nice work," he added sarcastically. "Now we have lost the locater device and have no idea where any of them are or what they are doing at the moment. I do not even know for sure what they were doing there in the first place or if their mission was accomplished or not. You blew our best chance to kill them simply because you couldn't wait for them to exit the store all together like I told you to do."

Kyle could feel the anger rising in him. His brother was always damned quick to point out his shortcomings. Kyle tried to speak as calmly as possible into the phone. "Maybe you could do better big brother, but you are not one to like to get blood on your own hands, are you? You send me instead because you know I like my revenge served hot and up close and personal. Maybe I will just quit and go home and let you do your own dirty work for yourself for a change."

"I'm sorry Kyle. Please forgive me. I'll just a little fried right now. You've been doing well. Real well. No one could ask more of you, and I'm proud of you. It's just that this O'Brien guy keeps getting away. He must be the luckiest son of a bitch I've ever seen. And now he has reinforcements. We did not foresee this in our original plan. I do not know if he went to that shop to see the old watchmaker or his son, or both. I do not know what help he expected to get from them. I do not have a clue as to what their plan is, except I'm sure they will try to find the girl before the three days are up. And therein may be their greatest weakness, and our greatest opportunity. What goes 'round comes back 'round, every single time—isn't that right Kyle old buddy?" Kyle smiled a little on that one. His brother could always make him smile, ever since they were little kids.

"Kyle, I think we need a change of plan here. We need to regroup and re-organize. Things here at Bellevue are pretty chaotic since Carter was killed. The whole department is in an uproar and that's making it a lot harder for me to manage our little project. So, I'll tell you what. I would actually like you to go back home and hole up for a while. Finish your business with the girl whenever you like. The three days are off. Kill her as fast or as slow as you would like. I frankly don't care what you do to her. Just get rid of the body in the usual way. Then wait for my call. O'Brien will have to check in here again before too long and we'll find out what's going on. Then we'll make a new plan. How fast can you get back home?"

"Just a few hours. But I'll get another car first. There is a place just up the road. I saw a good looking pickup there a few minutes ago. Then I'll going to catch a few hours' sleep and head home. Will probably be there by late morning. The bitch may be dead by now anyway. I've been gone a long time. But if she isn't I'll bring her back a little and then start in on her. I'm in a bad mood brother. I think I'm going to make her wish she had never been born. It'll take me a day or two to finish her."

"Spare me the details Kyle. You know I'm not into that. But you have your fun. I'll call you in a few days with the new program."

"Any chance O'Brien can find the house?"

"I don't think so Kyle. A lot of years have gone by. O'Brien isn't even sure exactly what happened way back then—much less what's going on now. On a long shot I guess he could maybe find Dad's house, but what good is that going to do him? Besides, he'll be reporting back in here soon. Then we'll have a better idea of what he's up to. So just go home, have some fun and relax and wait. And be sure to ditch the car way far away from your house."

"I will. Talk to you again in a few days then."

"Okay Kyle. Take care."

Kyle hit the off button on the phone and returned it to his pocket as he started up the road toward the general store. He guessed his brother was probably right. It was a good idea to just stop right now and let things cool off for a few days. He had plenty to occupy his time in the basement for a while anyhow. He felt a tingling in his groin just thinking about it. She would think that he had returned to start the same old bullshit with the pool balls. Not so lucky this time bitch. No more mister nice guy. The drain under the table was going to run plenty fast and red for a couple of days before she finally died. Maybe he could do without that sleep. Maybe he could still make it home tonight. Then he could stop and take naps in the basement off and on while he worked his magic on the girl. The basement is where all the magic happens, he thought with amusement. Yes, Kyle thought. That would be a pretty nice way to spend the night.

After he took care of the old couple in the store, he would take their pickup and stop off at the Bronco and get the rest of his supplies and head home. He had brought with him all he needed right now. The old couple were just closing up the store, but he could still see a light burning in the front. They would never suspect a thing before it was much too late. Kyle intended to do a little practice run on them. A sort of warm up before the main event.

As he approached the front door of the store he was pleased to see that there were no other cars anywhere in the area. It was just another boring as hell night like all the others to the shopkeepers inside. Only this one was going to be a lot different. As Kyle mounted the three wooden steps to the front door, he calmly drew his eight inch hunting knife from its sheath and a razor sharp hatchet from another. It was all he was going to need to take care of business here. A gun would just be overkill, too noisy and a waste of perfectly good bullets.

Pausing for just a second at the door, he raised his foot and smashed in the door in an ear shattering hail of wooden fragments and glass. The two old timers were in the front of the store and looked up in shock, surprise and fright. The old lady screamed as the old man rushed toward him. It was the last move he would ever make as he fell, his head cleaved nearly in two and almost off his shoulders as the hatchet bore down into him again and again.

The old woman's shrieking went on for another half minute or so, as Kyle finished with the man.

Then her screaming stopped too.

In the darkened and empty communications center of the Bellevue Police Department, a lone figure sat in front of a computer holding a now silent cell phone, his call to his maniac brother, or sister, or whatever the hell it was, now over. God, how she/he creeped him out. Sometimes it was all he could do to look the monster in the face and be around it. Since he was a child he had always felt this way about Kylie—now Kyle. There was no blood relationship between them, although Kyle never knew that. Kyle always just assumed they were brother and sister. Jesus, what a little freak she was. Although a girl, she had a boys' fascination with death. She loved to torture and kill small animals and insects. Later she moved on to larger prey. What his father ever saw in her was beyond him. He guessed she wasn't bad looking as a slim teenager, but she got big and muscular later on. He knew his father had used her sexually for most of her childhood, but he didn't see much wrong with that either. Again, she was adopted. No blood between his father and her either, so why shouldn't the old man have his fun. He deserved it. Nothing much right ever happened in his fathers' life. He was entitled to a little joy wherever he could find it. His mother had been a stone bitch too. Her name was Ruth—as in ruthless he mused. She had made his father's life a misery for every day of their miserable marriage, and she had heaped probably more abuse on Kylie than even his father had.

Dad had finally had enough and was getting ready to leave the bitch, when she saved him the trouble by shooting herself through the head one night. At least that was the way it was made to look. He always suspected that his father had simply bypassed the divorce courts, and went directly to a most final decree. He smiled a little at that. Not the first time dad had killed, he suspected, and most certainly not the last. Not the last by a long shot. Sure his father had his faults, but dear old papa was always good to him, never laid a hand on him, and that was really all that mattered. Taking care of old _numero uno_ was what mattered most in this life. That was his philosophy, and the creed he lived by.

By the time he was eighteen years old he had had enough of the whole sick bunch of them and broke away from and left them all. He went into law enforcement and began a successful career. He would never return, not until now, when there was revenge to be sought, and much, much more importantly than that, money to be made.

Staring somewhat blankly at the computer screen as he rolled the old memories around in his head, he was startled a little to see an icon pop off in the upper right corner of the screen. Someone was on the computer, and that shouldn't be. There was absolutely no one left in the building at this time of the evening that should or would have access to the mainframe computer. He was not any kind of a genius with computers, but even at that he thought he might be able to figure out what this mysterious person was looking at.

Hitting a few keys, he punched in a few simple codes and commands and almost immediately came up with his answer, finding himself looking at the Human Resources screen and a list of names of all of the police department personnel and their dates of hire. The most recent had been separated out and their original applications and resumes accessed. Someone was checking backgrounds! The first thought to enter his head was of course O'Brien. But then he doubted that O'Brien had password access to the system. Carter might have hired him and promoted him nearly on the spot, but he surely wouldn't have had time to have set him up with computer access. It just didn't make sense.

What did make sense was the fact that someone had a clue that Kyle had a handler at the department and was looking for the connection. Probably Zhou's Honda had not been destroyed in the explosion at the antique shop and O'Brien had found the GPS unit it had been carrying underneath. But if O'Brien was unlikely to be the one accessing the computer, then who?

He picked up the phone and called another officer who indeed was a computer expert. This officer knew the department system pretty much like the back of his hand. He explained to this man that someone was using the department system to look for work with other agencies and that was a clear violation of policy and he wanted to find out who it was. The officer explained the procedure for verifying access as he carefully wrote it down. He thanked the officer and hung up the phone.

Carefully following the officer's instructions he entered his own password and brought up the human resources history file. Sure enough, there appeared a list of all recent password protected access to this area of the system. There on the bottom of the list was the next most recent one, just above his own. His eyes nearly popped out of his head as he read the entry: howardjcarterChiChione234.

Someone was using Howard Carter's password to access the police department computer, and it could only be one of two people, Johnny O'Brien or Howard Carter himself. Perhaps Carter had given Johnny O'Brien his password before O'Brien left town. But why? Why would Carter have suspected a handler inside the department at that time? Didn't make sense. The only other thing that did make sense sent a chill up his spine. Maybe Carter wasn't quite as dead as everyone thought. An alive Howard Carter was not something he wanted to deal with in the least. If he was not dead he was recovering somewhere. Where would that be? He knew that Carter had a sister living somewhere in the area. Where the hell was it? Somewhere up north of Bellevue. Lynnwood, Marysville, Kent, Bothell? Bothell had a ring to it. Yes, he was pretty sure Bothell was it.

This was going to require some very serious investigation. Some very serious investigation indeed—and fast.

Nora Davis tapped lightly on her brother's bedroom door and was slightly dismayed to hear his faint response, "come in." She had told him an hour earlier that she wanted him off the computer and asleep. She had told him at that time that she was coming back in an hour and was going to unplug him if he hadn't done it himself by that time. As she entered the room Howard was just turning off the computer and closing the lid.

"Yeah, yeah I know Dragon Lady," he said. "To sleep with me."

Nora took the laptop from his hands with a smile on her face. "You can have it back in the morning," she said, "if you get to sleep now and stay that way for at least eight hours. Sorry brother, my house, my rules."

Howard smiled back. "Thanks Nora. I may have turned something up. I'll have Del contact O'Brien, but it can wait until morning."

"Good enough then," she replied. "Do you need the bedpan?"

"Forget it woman. When I can't manage to walk twelve feet to take a leak, I guess you can shovel dirt in my face."

"That's the last thing on this earth that I want to do Howard—so draw the curtains on that window, okay?"

"Yeah, okay. But we're safe out here Nora. No one knows that I'm alive, and for darned sure no one is going to look for me all the way out here even if they thought I were."

"Okay. See you in the morning then. Good night Howard."

"Good night Nora. See you in the morning."

Missy awoke with a start. She had been dreaming that she was home in her own bed and safe and warm, instead of nearly freezing half to death naked and chained to this cold and unyielding wooden table. Her stiff joints and muscled screamed at her with nearly every breath she took. She was half out of her mind with thirst despite having consumed as much of the dripping water as she was able to reach. She knew that she was becoming severely dehydrated and that was beginning to affect her ability to think clearly. If she were going to be able to do anything to help herself out of this situation, it was going to have to be soon. She was beginning to think that her tormentor was not going to be coming back at all. She was convinced that he had simply left her here to die a slow death of starvation and exposure.

For about the hundredth time she tried to pull her hands free of the handcuffs that held them. Never before had she been able to get anywhere, but this time she felt just a little looseness in the right handcuff. Her somewhat desiccated tissue had shrunk enough to allow her to nearly pull her hand out of the restraint.

She continued to pull on that right hand, and twist and turn it as well. She was almost sure that if she were able to stay awake and concentrate on it, she would be able to finally pull that hand free before very much more time went by. In this was her only real hope for survival.

In the darkened room at the Coeur d'Alene Resort, all was finally quiet and still. Matt lay on his back in his bed, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling, waiting for O'Brien's breathing to deepen and finally settle into a mild snore. He didn't have to wait long. The older man was clearly nearing exhaustion. He had gone through a lot in the past two days Matt thought, and then he had slapped him around even more. There had really been no need of it. A milder demonstration would have done just as well. But he had enjoyed hurting O'Brien. That was a part of himself that he disliked but had never come to grips with during all his years of life. He hated that part of himself—that coldness, but seemed unable to change it very much. Once of course, that streak of icy cold steel had saved his life—so to speak anyhow, and Matt didn't doubt that it might again. But still he knew it was unattractive, and even in the very short time he had known her, he was beginning to like that girl next door. Perhaps when this is over, he thought. Perhaps.

Giving himself another ten minutes to be sure the detective was truly out, Matt arose and quickly stripped out of the blue pajamas, folding them neatly on the bed. Some lifelong habits were hard to break. Reaching into the ancient valise, he pulled out several articles of clothing more appropriate to this nights' activities. Feeling he was being watched, although O'Brien's back was to him, he looked over to the two dark forms sleeping together near the foot of O'Brien's bed. Sammy was clearly out, but next to him Matt could just make out the iridescent green eyes of the cat—boring accusingly into him.

"Be back soon old girl," he said softly as he pulled a light weight undershirt over his bare skin, followed by another light weight and loose fitting hooded jacket. Cinching his belt up tight, Matt crossed quickly to the door and cracked it just an inch to check the hallway. There, just as he suspected there would be, were two uniformed Coeur d'Alene police officers, standing guard at the end of the hall, courtesy of Captain Watters.

Matt closed the door again softly and pulled his pocket watch from his right hand pocket where he had placed it just moments ago. In the darkness it glowed a dull green light as he checked the time. Pushing the watch back into the security of his pocket, but keeping his hand firmly on it, Matt closed his eyes for just a moment, and then left the building, his passage un-noticed by the two cops.

Once outside, Matt headed straight for the lake and the emptiness of the shoreline. It was a very dark night, with just a sliver of moon showing. A perfect night to move about undetected. A perfect night to come and go. By the dark of the moon once again he thought, smiling a little to himself. By the dark of the moon once again . . . and hunting.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Coeur d'Alene Resort

Coeur d'Alene, Idaho

Tuesday morning – July 17, 2013

It was still about an hour before full sunrise when I opened my eyes for the first time and looked around the room in the half darkness. Dull slate grey light was beginning to work its way around the window curtains. Sobriety apparently does have its benefits. It had been a long time since I had been awake at an hour like this, and without a hangover as well. Chi-Chi and Sammy were still curled up on the floor together, but Sammy was awake and staring off into the distance, missing his master Lucas I was sure. He and Chi-Chi were now inseparably fast friends, and I was pretty sure that if we all made it through this thing, they would both be coming home with me. Sammy did not seem to have much loyalty to Matt, rarely either going to him or wanting to have much to do with him in general. Chi-Chi either for that matter.

Turning over and seeing Matt's empty bed, I thought he was in the bathroom, so I got up and put on my pants and knocked softly on Linh's door. She answered at once and told me to come in. She was already dressed and ready to go in jeans, blouse, tennis shoes and a baseball cap. She looked ready for business, especially as she placed her service pistol into the waistband of her jeans and covered it discreetly with a light-weight jacket. Even with the casual dress and basically men's clothing, she still looked mighty good.

"So how you doing this morning Linh?" I asked as I eased myself into the recliner at the foot of her bed.

"Okay Johnny. I got a good night's sleep after a long hot shower. Rough day yesterday, but I'm ready to go." She said it like she meant it too.

"Good. It's going to be another rough day today too. Let's go over to the other room and get with Matt and make a plan for the day. I'm getting an ugly feeling we don't have a lot of time to spare."

"Me too Johnny. It's been gnawing at me all night."

I nodded. I trusted Linh's instincts almost as much as my own, even though she was a rookie. Any fool could tell she was a natural born cop. She was lucky. She had found her calling early in life.

Going back into the other room, I noticed for the first time Matt's PJs folded neatly on the bed. Figuring him to be in the shower even though I couldn't hear it running, I opened the bathroom door a crack and called out his name. No response. The room was empty. Next I quickly stepped to the window overlooking the balcony and seeing nothing even more quickly opened up the front door to check out the hallway. Leaning out of the door side by side, both Linh and I were greeted by two uniformed Coeur d'Alene police officers.

"Good morning sir," one of them said. "Hope you all had a good night's sleep."

"Yes. We did. Thanks for standing guard. I might have known Watters would send someone. Did you guys see which way Mr. McCabe went this morning? I'm not sure exactly what time he left."

"I'm sorry sir, but no one has left your room all night. We both have been here all of the time, wide awake and watching either your door or the hallway. Captain Watters would have had our pelts if we had let anyone of your party leave without informing him. There has absolutely no activity whatsoever all night long."

Linh and I looked at each other quizzically and with just a bit of rising panic. There was only one other way out of the room and we were on the tenth floor. Both of us turned away from the hallway in unison back into the room, and when we did, smacked directly into the chest of Matt, who was apparently standing just behind us all the time.

"Good morning you two," he calmly said. "You're both up a little earlier than I would have expected."

Looking him over I was amazed. He was dressed from head to toe entirely in black—from his flat black loafers to the top of his head, adorned as it was with a light-weight black watch cap. A few tendrils of black hair poked out from under the cap. If the black hoodie he was wearing were to be pulled up over the back of his head, he would surely have disappeared almost totally into a dark night, except for his white face of course.

"Where the hell have you been?" I loudly demanded. "And how the hell did you get out of this room without those two cops seeing you?" I demanded even louder. "What did you do? Scale down the side of the damned building, you idiot!"

"Detective O'Brien. . . Johnny that is, must you liberally sprinkle each and every sentence you form with both profanity and invective?"

"Yes!" I half shouted. "It's my feeble mind showing. You're driving me crazy. Where have you been?" I demanded once again.

"Just sitting out on the balcony Johnny. Just doing my little mind thingy."

"And your little mind thingy requires you to be dressed up like a teenage mutant ninja turtle?"

"It helps me think."

"I just checked that balcony a minute ago. You weren't out there."

"I was in the corner. You didn't check the corner. I scrunch up pretty good for a tall guy."

"Well Carnac, while you were sitting out there meditating, did you happen to come up with anything useful?" I asked sarcastically.

"Yes—I think I did. How about the name of your serial killer? Not your current one mind you, but the old eight-ball killer from twelve years ago. Do you think that might be useful?"

"Yes, of course you dummy! What is it?"

"Not now Johnny. I'll explain everything on the way. In case you haven't noticed it, we're running out of time."

I think I could have choked the life out of him at that moment, but I needed him alive too much, so instead I simply asked, "On the way where?"

"Why back to the warehouse in Spokane of course. That's where all this started, and that's where the answers are. You are going to tell me and show me everything that happened at that building that night."

With that he turned and walked out the door, looking back just once to ask, "You two coming or what? Grab the suitcases and the two fleabags. I'll meet you downstairs at the car."

I made a mental note to kill him later, after this was all over. And I intended to do it slowly.

Once out of the resort and out on the highway headed west toward Spokane, I started to relax a little. At least we weren't just sitting around now. We were out doing _something_ , and any action at all seemed better than nothing at this point. With all due respect to Chief Watters, I had checked the undercarriage of the car carefully. I knew the mind-set of police much too well to have not done so. No tag along this time. I was driving, Linh was in the passenger seat and Matt was in the rear with the dog and cat. As we raced for the Washington state border he was changing his clothes in the back seat, stretching every which way like a contortionist as he removed one midnight black article of clothing and pulled on another more normal garment, all the while trying to keep some semblance of modesty for Linh's sake.

Chi-Chi had retreated to the relative safety of the rear window ledge away from the flying knees and elbows. Sammy was doing the best he could hunkered down in a corner. At one point Chi-Chi dodged a pair of blue boxer shorts with a hiss. She probably felt as I did, that learning the color of his underwear was mucho more information than we both needed. Matt chirped on like a kid as he did his quick change artist routine.

"Sorry to have given you both a start this morning, but I really needed to get away for a while and focus on some of the many issues that are going on here," he said with a grin. "The balcony was perfect for it," he added.

"You weren't on the balcony," I contradicted.

"Whatever," he responded.

"What were you doing anyway?" Linh wanted to know.

"He was time traveling in his head, what else?" I explained facetiously. "Never mind," I added. "You'll start to think I'm as around the bend as he is."

I was about to come up with a couple more insults and witty zingers for Matt when my cell phone rang. "O'Brien," I said.

"Johnny. Watters here. I've got some news for you. You guys may have just caught a break."

"Good. We sure as hell can use one. What's up?"

"Well, I got a call from the State Patrol a few minutes ago. Seems your killer high-tailed it out of here yesterday and headed north up into the panhandle, to a little speck on the map called Sparks. It was an old logging town at one time, but about the only thing there now is a mom and pop grocery store, gas station, and post office. Anyway, they found her car, the white Bronco off the side of the road about two hundred yards the other side of the store. It was mostly empty, except for three additional tanks of propane. She must have been in a hurry at the antique store, and didn't use them all. If she had, you probably wouldn't be talking to me right now.

"Any idea which way she went now?" I asked.

"No. But that's not the worst of it. The little grocery was run by an elderly couple named the Wilkinsons. A customer found them this morning when she stopped off to pick up her mail. The front door had been smashed in and both of them were dead in the front of the store. I haven't seen it yet, but the trooper that was first on the call said it was the bloodiest death scene that he had ever encountered, and that included his three tours of duty in Iraq. Seems your lady used an axe and literally chopped the old folks into small pieces and hung up parts of them including their entrails over the counters and cash register like she was decorating with Christmas garland."

"Guess she was sending a message," I said.

"My guess is that once she got started she was so enraged she wasn't able to stop until she was worn out. The trooper said that the amount of effort required to chop up those two bodies so completely would be enough to have exhausted a grown man. She did send a message though, and it was pretty easy to figure out what it was, since it was written in blood on the wall of the store. It was simply two names—Carter and O'Brien. The first name, Carter, was then crossed off, again in blood. Got any idea Johnny of _exactly_ what she was trying to say?"

"Not a clue Watters. But then I've been told recently that I have a feeble mind," I said, shooting a quick glance back at Matt in the mirror. His expression was impossible to read. "Actually I kind of like her being focused on me. Maybe if she comes at me again she'll slip up a little. Law of average says she's about due. Did she get a vehicle this time Watters, or is she just slicing and dicing folks for the pure hell of it?"

"She stole their truck. Yes."

"How long to make it to Spokane from Sparks?" I asked.

"Not long Johnny. But here's where the break comes in. She may have already slipped up. The store's gas tank was empty and had been for a couple of days. Apparently the old couple were waiting for the next tanker delivery to fill up their own truck. It was nearly empty too. Don't know if your girl simply missed seeing that or took it anyhow, since there were no other vehicles around. Anyway, she only made it a few miles down the road before the thing conked out. That's where the patrol found it this morning—abandoned. Now consider this Johnny. She had to have been covered in blood and gore when she left that store. The trooper that found the car said the driver's seat was pretty well smeared with it. She may have had a change of clothes with her in the Bronco, but she is still going to need a place to clean up and change. She'd stick out like a sore thumb anywhere she turns up unless she does."

"Any places for her to do that in the area?" I asked.

"Yes. A few motels along the road heading south. The State Patrol has already evacuated the folks from those motels and replaced the check-in clerks with cops. So we'll get her if she tries her slash and grab at one of those. Still, she could also simply find a stream and bath in one of those. Pretty cold water, but she seems to be a tough old gal, so I don't think it would bother her too much. But the point is she can't be carrying all that much with her. The troopers found a bunch of stuff in the couples' truck that apparently she transferred from the Bronco. Stuff like a big-assed thirty caliber assault rifle and about a half a million rounds of ammo."

"Thank God that thing is out of commission anyhow," I said. "I was starting to get really sick of that rifle."

"So Johnny, what's she got now? Maybe a change of clothes—maybe not. Maybe a pistol or two. Perhaps some food and water—perhaps not. She'll be shopping for new wheels, but the pickings are going to be pretty thin. The call has gone out. Troopers have set up road blocks and are combing the area, searching empty cabins and houses one by one and alerting home owners in the ones that are occupied. There aren't a lot of houses up that way anyhow. Most of it is National Forest lands. The few that are there are mostly all owned by well-armed survivalists, anarchists, bubbas and red-necks. Her choices are getting limited."

"At last she does seem to have made a mistake. And we do seem to have bought a little more time as a result of it," I said. "If she gets through the gauntlet and gets another car though, she would still be only eight or twelve hours behind schedule."

"What schedule?" Watters asked.

"Her killing schedule. Linh and I both have the gut feeling that our three days grace period no longer exists. We think she is heading home to finish the girl. Chewing up and spitting out one old couple isn't going to satisfy her for very long."

"Where's home?"

"Spokane. We're as sure of it as we can be about anything at this point," I replied. "We're on our way right now to the site of the warehouse fire twelve years ago."

"And it's tied to the present day events?" Watters asked.

"Yeah—oddly enough, I think it is."

"Where is it?"

"Corner of Division and Allen Streets."

"I'll make some calls for you. I've been friends with the Spokane Police Chief for a lot of years now. Frank Daly is his name. Frank had better give you guys all the help you need if he expects me to keep letting him win at golf twice a month."

"Thanks again," I said.

"No problem Johnny. Talk to you later."

I hit the end button and quickly filled in Linh and Matt on what was going on.

"If we got a little more time then, pull over at the next golden arches. I've been up all night and I'm getting hungry. A breakfast sandwich for you, me, Linh and Sammy. And a couple of fish sticks for Chi-Chi. She's starting to look a little thin and peaked," Matt said.

"You two have a lot in common," I replied. "You're both stomach orientated."

"Hey, I'm a watchmaker—I'm always hungry. You know what a watch does when it's still hungry, don't you?"

"No," I said, dreading his reply.

"It goes back four seconds," he said, covering his face with his hands as Linh reached back to playfully give him a swat. I couldn't help but smile a little. Nice bit of levity. Likely not going to be a lot more coming up. Despite Watters assessment of the situation, I was pretty sure our killer was going to find a way out of Idaho and make her way back to Spokane, delayed or not. Still, the odds had shifted just a little bit in our favor, and at this point, that was something to shout about.

We stopped for carry-out and spent the next twenty minutes at a roadside picnic table, eating our sandwiches, drinking soft drinks and watching the odd couple devour their own food, water and all of our scrapes. Matt's change of clothes was definitely an improvement. He was dressed in fashionably faded although brand new Levis with a wide brown belt, a white on white pin-striped long sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up a couple of turns, brown loafers and very expensive Pierre Cardin sunglasses. Topped off with a grey English driving cap and light tan sport jacket. Matt was looking good, and with Linh sitting close beside him with her baseball cap turned around backwards, even I noticed what a sharp couple they made.

"I noticed the bill for your stuff laying on the dresser this morning," I said. "You paid for everything. Didn't charge a penny to the City, did you?"

"No. I bought it all myself. I'm kind of funny that way."

"You're kind of funny in a lot of ways. Are you made of money or what?"

"Probably not as much as a best-selling crime novelist, but I've got a few centavos put away. You'd expect a time-traveling in his mind, ersatz sort of psychic guy to have made a few decent investments along the way wouldn't you?"

"It can't have been a long way. How old did you say you were?"

"Twenty-two."

"I've got socks that are older than twenty-two," I replied.

"Maybe you should loosen up with some of your money and buy new ones," he grinned.

"Maybe," I agreed. "Where you from?"

"Right here in the Northwest. Portland to be exact."

"Where did you learn to handle a gun like I saw you do?"

"A misspent youth."

"You're still in your youth."

"Don't let my baby-face fool you."

"You weren't on the balcony." I stated it as a fact.

"Do you want to have that discussion right now Detective O'Brien? Or do you want to have it later?"

I fixed him with as steely a gaze as I had in me. "I'd like to have it right now Mr. McCabe, but I just don't have the time. You, on the other hand, seem to have quite a lot of it, don't you? Time that is."

Linh had stopped chewing and was regarding us both warily.

"I've passed my share of it," was his enigmatic reply.

"There's something wrong about you McCabe. Something I can't quite put my finger on. Something that's a hell of a long way from right."

"Tell you what Detective O'Brien. . . Johnny that is. When this is over we'll have that talk. Just you and me and the lamp post, as they say. As long as you buy me dinner at the most expensive restaurant in town, and all the good stiff drinks I can hold to go along with it. I've waited a long time for that dinner."

I raised an eyebrow on that one. "It's a date Mr. McCabe. . . Matt that is. Assuming we are both alive to enjoy it that is."

"Yes—assuming that."

The silence was audible for a full half-minute after that exchange. Then I asked him the question.

"Okay Matt. Bullshit's over. Tell me what you've got. And make it good."

"Tell me what you know about the eight-ball killer's corpse," Matt asked.

"It burned up in the warehouse. End of story."

"Not quite. There were bones, and teeth. What happened to them?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Come on Johnny—work with me here. This is for all the marbles. You've got a girl out there to save, not to mention the little factoid that this crazy killer is out to get you and Carter as well."

"Carter's already dead," I replied, testing him.

"Not from what I saw he isn't. I'm going to have to ask you Johnny, to not quite consider me to be as stupid as I may look—I'm not. And I sure wasn't born yesterday. Howard Carter is very much alive and recuperating from his wounds at his sister's house in Bothell, exactly where you sent him the day before yesterday. As long as we continue to play games with each other, we aren't going to get anywhere, and we _are_ going to run out of time. I am asking you to suspend your disbelief for the duration of our working together. You came to me for help, remember? How about letting me give you some."

"I'm not sure I trust you," I replied.

"Fine. That's a good honest start. But you do have to trust me though and I have to trust you as well. So for the sake of honesty, openness and complete disclosure, I'll give you a concession. You're right—I wasn't on the balcony. We really don't have time for excessive detail at the moment, but suffice it to say that I don't do my little thing by sitting out on the front porch in the lotus position and thinking pretty thoughts. I don't time travel in my head either. I physically travel both in time and space with my body—and with all the blood and bones of it. What I do is up close and personal, and about as dirty and dangerous as it gets. I stand as much a chance, or maybe even better than either Linh or you of getting myself killed in the next twenty-four hours. So, to make a long speech short—even if you don't respect me, and I don't much care if you do or not, at least respect my capabilities, and tell me what you know about what happened to the eight-ball killer's body."

I hesitated for a full half minute and then just gave it all up. "Okay Matt. I'll buy it. I'm in, one hundred percent. No more disbelief, no more questions, no more doubts. You and me Matt. We're partners. Second star to the right buddy, and straight on to morning. We go after this bitch, we get her, we kill her if we have to, and we save the girl—just like in the movies. What this means Matt, is—I die for you, and you die for me. You ready for that?"

"Yeah Johnny. I'm ready for that. I've died before—for a lesser thing than this."

I figured he was speaking metaphorically, but I made a mental note of it for future research.

"Hey, what about me?" Linh interjected.

"You're a full partner Linh. What I just said to Matt applies to you too."

"Two more you're forgetting about Johnny," Linh added, nodding toward the fur balls.

"Are they a part of this?" I asked.

"Yeah, I think they are," Linh said. "Just as much as us."

"Okay then, it's settled. Victory or death so to speak. If you wouldn't mind Matt, I'll talk on the way. The old warehouse is gone, but it was on the corner of Divison and Allen Street. Or as they say in OZ—follow the yellow brick road, third munchkin on the left."

We five then piled in the car and headed east once more for the short drive to Spokane. Again I was behind the wheel. Matt had taken the passenger seat this time and Linh was in back with Sammy and Chi-Chi. Matt pulled out the short-barreled twelve gauge pump shotgun from under the seat and checked the contents. He did the same with his SIG pistol and then tucked it into his waistband under his shirt.

"If I don't come through this," Matt said, "everything I own, everything I have, all goes to Sam. Will you see to it?"

"Yes I will. Sam who?" I asked.

"Same last name as mine. You'll find him in Coeur d'Alene. And you?"

"I don't have a soul that I'd care to leave a penny to," I said. "There is a will in my desk at home, and in my attorneys' office. His name is on the papers. It all goes to charity. I'd appreciate it Matt, if you would see that it happens that way."

"Will do Johnny. And Linh?"

I lowered my voice. "We get her home Matt. No matter what it takes, no matter what else, we get her home. She deserves a life. I've already had a long one. I keep getting the feeling that maybe you've had a long one too."

"I have," he replied softly. "Yes—we'll get her home Johnny."

"And if we all come out of this thing alive, you might consider asking her out. She likes you."

"Really? You think so?"

"Man, I was right Matt. You _are_ as dumb as you look."

Matt just smiled a little—and got a little red around the hairline.

The squad car entered the highway. "Less than an hour to Spokane," I said. "Let's talk."

"Okay buddy—let's talk," Matt replied. "Tell me about the bones."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Spokane, Washington

Tuesday – July 17, 2013

"I never saw the bones, or teeth, or any other part of the killer's remains. I spent that night in Sacred Heart Hospital and the next morning in surgery getting the bastard's shrapnel dug out of my back. I was released to go home about three days after that. My spinal cord did not respond well to treatment or physical therapy. Sure I could walk, but I never knew when my legs were going to go out from under me, as you saw back at the antique store. My days as a cop were over. I would never wear a badge again until a couple of days ago."

"What would have been the procedure for disposing of the killer's remains?" Matt asked.

"Well," I answered, you have to remember that the old warehouse burned nearly to the ground. The entire roof caved in. All that was left standing were the outer walls. It took the fire department four hours just to get the fire out. All that propane, hundreds of twenty pound cylinders of it, produced quite a hellish hot fire. There were no remains to speak of, except a small pile of bones and some teeth. They were found exactly where Carter and I had last seen the killer, and exactly where he went down after I shot him twice. There was no reason to believe that they weren't the killer's remains—until recently that is. After that day the killings stopped, for twelve long years.

"Anyway," I went on, all the remains that were found after the fire was out and the building cooled, were collected and bagged and sent to the Office of the Medical Examiner. His name was Dr. William Frick, I believe. He died a few years later of a heart attack. The bones were far too degraded to do DNA testing on them, at least at the time, and I'm pretty sure even today there wouldn't be any way to get anything useful from them. The teeth and jaw would have been reconstructed as much as possible and checked against any existing dental records of convicted felons and so forth. Nothing ever came of it as far as I know. So where are you going with this Matt?"

"Then what would have happened to them?" he pressed. "After all of the examinations and so forth?"

"Well, after the remains are released by the M.E. they would normally be picked up by the next of kin. However in this case there was no known next of kin since there was no known identity, so they would have been sent to a contract mortuary that does cremations. Generally speaking, there is one mortuary designated in the City or County to do this type of work for that government agency. They would be under contract. I really don't remember what mortuary that was at the time. Several different ones were used in just the few years I was with the Police Department."

"Richardson-Byrd Funeral Home," Matt replied. "They were located in downtown Spokane. Went out of business just a couple of years ago."

"Well then, you already know more about it than I do."

"So then, what you are telling me is that Richardson-Byrd cremated this clown for the second time?" Matt asked.

"Yeah, that's pretty much it. They would have burned the remains again in their own retort, or oven, and then crushed the bones and teeth into what is a pretty fine gravel-like consistency. All of them would probably have fit into a three pound coffee can with plenty of room to spare."

"And then what?" Matt pressed again.

"And then the funeral home would have kept the cremated remains, now commonly called cremains, probably on a shelf in their storeroom until someone came to claim them or until the statutory time limit has passed. And then they could get rid of them."

"How long?"

"I'm not entirely sure here in Washington," I confessed. "Probably six months to a year."

"Then what?"

"Then the funeral home could do with them what they wanted. Generally speaking they would throw them out, either in the back of the local cemetery if they wanted to be nice, or right into a garbage can if they didn't. Personally I hope they used the garbage can in this guy's case. Or perhaps down the toilet."

"How would the cremains have been labeled?"

"John Doe, since they didn't have the guy's real name. Also a release number from the Medical Examiner's Office. And probably with the DOD, or death of death, which was July 2, 2001 as best I remember. I know I spent the Fourth of July holiday in the damned hospital."

"Let's suppose, for the sake of the argument that someone had wanted to claim the cremains. Could anyone have just walked into the mortuary and done so?"

"Yeah, pretty much. He or she would have had to have signed a paper stating their name and relationship to the deceased, but that would be about it. Did someone?"

"Yeah—someone did. I guess that Richardson-Byrd wasn't too great on keeping up on their cremains disposal, because they were picked up a full two and a half years after the date of death. I pretty much figured out all that you have just been telling me, so after I found out the name of the mortuary, I went back and visited it just before it went out of business. Sure enough that form was still on file. They were pretty good at keeping their paper records, especially those having to do with the official County or City work. The release form was signed by a Robert R. Blakely. The line for relationship was left blank. It did have a date, which is how I know it was two and a half years later. That date also let me go back and stake out the mortuary on that day and actually watch the person come and get them and leave again. It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of a bright and sunny winter day, by the way."

"So what did he look like?" I nearly shouted.

"He looked like anybody. Average build and height. Dark hair. Wore sunglasses and a baseball cap down low over his eyes, so I can't give you too much of a description."

"Why didn't you follow him?" I asked.

"Tried—but he noticed. This guy knew what he was doing and gave me the slip pretty easy."

"I think I might have too if I'd been him. You probably looked like a psychopath yourself, following some guy down the street dressed all in black like you were Peter Lorre or something."

"Okay, okay. Sometimes the best night time disguises don't always work that well during the day. Anyway, I couldn't press the issue. I can only observe—not interfere. Sorry, it's the butterfly effect thing—kind of like the prime directive," he shrugged. "Trust me when I tell you I've had some bad experience with just that. Why didn't the clerk have him fill in the relationship line?"

"Gee Matt, you're expecting a lot from some underpaid funeral parlor clerk. Probably didn't pay much attention to the person or to how he signed the form. He probably didn't even notice that the relationship line wasn't filled in. The clerk wouldn't have cared much."

"What I might have expected more of was the Spokane Police Department," Matt complained. "No one paid any attention at all to the remains after they left the medical examiners custody."

"And why should they?" I countered, a little irritably. "After two and a half years, it was a pretty damned cold case, although never officially closed. As I said, there were no more killings. The public never knew about the eight-balls. Chances are the funeral home clerk didn't have an idea in the world that he was handing over the remains of a serial killer. They also have the ashes of completely innocent individuals, like nameless vagrants and bums that die on the street all the time—guilty of no crimes whatsoever. They would all be filed just the same way—John Does, ME number, date of death. All this guy would have had to do is walk in off the street and ask for the remains of a John Doe, date of death such and such. Unless there were more than one on that day and if the mortuary still had them, which in this case they did, they would be more than happy to get rid of them. It was no skin off their nose one way or the other. How does this get us his name?"

"Well," Matt answered, here is where the time travel thingy stops and the good old fashioned police work you are always so fond of talking about began. I simply got on-line, present day. Have you ever heard of Find a grave?

"Find a what?"

"I'm going to take that as a no," Matt said. "Find a grave is just one of many—although probably the best of genealogy web-sites devoted to documenting burial sites of both famous and ordinary people. Lucas used it, and some of the others quite frequently. He was always a little obsessed with finding his father. He never knew very much about the man. Some people create memorials on the site for their deceased loved ones.

"And someone created a memorial for the old eight-baller?"

"Not exactly," Matt answered. "At least, not on-line."

"What then?" I asked.

"Well here's the thing Johnny. There are an awful lot of people out there who are very passionate about and very devoted to genealogy work. A lot of them transcribe entire cemeteries and put the names of all the interments on the site. But most of them do it from the cemetery records, not from the actual headstones.

"And this helps us how?"

"Well, let us assume, again for the sake of the argument that the killer's cremains were picked up by a family member with the same last name. Say a son or an unmarried daughter. We are in Washington State right? So we go to Find a grave and put the surname name of Blakely in the search engine for Washington State and we come up with ninety-five Blakely's in cemeteries that have been transcribed. One by one we search the list looking for one that fits our bill. Only seven are interred in the Spokane area. Only two of those are cremains. Only one was interned in the Riverside Mausoleum of Riverside Memorial Park in Spokane within seven days of the remains being picked up at Richardson-Byrd funeral home in January of 2004. There is nothing on the cremains container at all, but the information for the cemetery transcription, would have come off the cemetery interment records. Information the cemetery would have collected when it sold the son or daughter the niche, including of course the name of the deceased."

"Brilliant," I conceded. "Simply brilliant Matt. What's the name?"

"Marvin R. Blakely," Date of birth unknown, according to the website. Date of death—July 2, 2001. Place—Spokane, Washington. Niche purchased by Robert R. Blakely. This time the relationship is clearly designated. Robert was Marvin's son.

"Bingo," I said. "Matt—I could kiss you."

"Slow down little lady, I'm not that kind of guy," he laughed.

I ignored him. "He never got out of that building. I killed him that night, didn't I?"

"Yup—you sure did. And in doing so, you started a slow chain reaction that is only just now unfolding. You set a lot of things in motion that night. Of course you had no idea of that at the time."

"What do you suppose the R. in the son's name stands for?" I asked.

"Bet you dollars to doughnuts it's Ronald."

"Viola," I softly asserted in my best Sherlock Holmes imitation. Robert Ronald Blakely. Ron Blake. Pretty damned close. Pretty damned close for chance," I said.

"Yup—sure is. Close enough for a search warrant?"

"Maybe," I said. "But we don't have time to pursue it, at least until we get the girl that is. What do you say guys, if we stop off and pay Mr. Marvin Blakely a visit? I haven't seen him for a while. I'd like to catch up on old times.

"I'm way ahead of you partner. I've already been to the mausoleum," Matt replied. "The black rig seemed to fit right in there."

"Bet it did. Buddy, you can sit out on the balcony any damned time you'd like to. What did you find out?"

"Just that he's in a cremains niche. Neat little cubby holes where people leave flowers, notes, personal messages, and such all the time for the deceased. They also leave various brick a brack, funeral notices, wedding rings, old awards, and service medals and so forth and so on."

"And in this case?" I asked.

"Just one thing. A shoulder patch. A shoulder patch from the Fraternal Order of Police, Highway Patrol, State of Missouri."

"A cop! I might have known. From Missouri. Long way from home."

"And a real long way from being a public servant in Missouri to a serial killer in Washington."

"Where do we go from here Matt?"

"First to the warehouse, twelve years ago. Then to Missouri, present day. Don't worry Johnny, I can do them both a lot faster than you can. Trust me on that one."

"Matt, I do. Trust you that is. Completely."

"Thanks Johnny."

"Don't mention it kid."

I pressed the accelerator a little harder. We had just reached the city limits.

Linh's personal cell phone rang. Not a lot of people had that number, so she answered it with a certain amount of trepidation, remembering Johnny's call from the killer back at Carter's house. "Zhou," she said into the phone.

"Linh Zhou of the Bellevue Police Department?" the voice on the other end queried.

"Yes," she answered.

"This is Captain Del Peters of the Bellevue Police Department, Officer Zhou. I have been trying without success to reach Detective O'Brien on his phone. Do you know where he is at the moment? I need to speak with him if possible."

Linh knew of Del Peters, although she had never actually met him. She knew that he and Chief Carter were old friends and trusted companions. She decided that she could trust him too.

"Detective O'Brien's phone has been destroyed. He is now carrying a different one. He is with me here now, and I will give my phone to him so you can speak directly with him."

Linh handed the phone to Johnny. "O'Brien," Johnny said.

"Detective O'Brien. This is Del Peters. You don't know me, but I am the Officer that drove Howard up to Bothell to Nora's place in the hearse. I have been friends with Howard for a lot of years. You can trust me. I got a call from him this morning. He wanted me to get in touch with you and have you call him on a secure line. He doesn't trust his phone. He has some information that he believes will help you. I have given him a new phone. No one beside myself, Howard and you know of the phones existence or its number. It is safe. The number is 555-206-2722. Please call him as soon as you can." With that the phone went dead as Peters ended the call.

"Short and sweet kind of a guy," Johnny said to Linh. "What do you know about him?"

"Don't know him myself, but he is considered a legend in the Department. He and Carter are supposed to be like brothers. They go way back. I think you can trust him."

"Okay—why not?"

Johnny punched in Carter's number and it was picked up on the second ring. "Carter," said the voice on the other end.

"Howard. O'Brien here. How are you doing?"

"I'm going to be fine Johnny. What's going on there?"

"We are just coming into Spokane."

"Who's we?

"Me, Linh, Matt McCabe, his dog Sammy and your cat."

"Why do you have my cat with you Johnny?"

"She's sort of become my good-luck charm—that's why. I'm not giving her up either Howard. Sorry."

"Well, keep her fed and she'll be happy. And keep her safe. I want my damned cat back after this is over. Bring her home—understand? Where's Lucas?"

"I'm sorry Howard. He's dead. Killed yesterday at the antique store. The bitch blew up the store too. Propane again."

"Shit Johnny, I'm sorry to hear that. How did she know you were there?"

"Someone at the Bellevue Police Department put a GPS under Linh's car. That's what we were driving when we left Bellevue."

"Why didn't you take the Escalade?"

"Long story Howard. I'll fill you in on all the details later."

"Matt alright?"

"He's fine Howard. Linh too. Matt and I have become fast friends after a somewhat rocky start. We're kind of like partners now."

"Good Johnny. Matt's the best man on the planet for you to have as a partner right now. Linh too. She's green, but what a heart."

"I agree Howard. What have you got?"

"Pretty sure I know who is pulling the strings on the killer."

"Ron Blake?"

"So what do you need me for? I forgot you got Matt McCabe with you."

"Yeah, he's a wonder alright. About half the time I want to hug him. That's the half when I don't want to kill him." Johnny could see Matt grinning in his peripheral vision.

"That's Matt alright. We've been friends a long time. Tell him hello for me."

"Will do Howard. What do you know about Blake?"

"Fairly new hire. Right now he's a simple patrolman, but spends a lot of time in the communications center. He's learning to be a digital detective, whatever the hell that is."

"That's the wave of the future Howard. Why did you hire him?"

"I didn't Johnny. Addams did. It was about a year ago when I was on vacation. It was a new position that had opened up and we wanted to get it filled as fast as we could before the city withdrew the funding for it. It was a kind of training position. All the applicants were computer geeks. We wanted to have the communication center overhauled and modernized. The odd thing was though, that Blake probably wasn't the most qualified man that applied. Addams was acting chief at the time while I was gone, and conducted all of the interviews. There were twelve applications."

"Why do you suppose Addams selected him?"

"Well, on the interview notes, Addams said that he was impressed with the young man's demeanor and enthusiasm. He was also impressed with the fact that Blake wanted to become a digital detective, whatever the hell that is," Howard repeated. "Addams told me once on the side that he was doing a good job, although he said, Blake was by no means the sharpest tool in the shed."

"How's his record been?"

"Good. Clean. No problems of any kind. Kept his nose to the grindstone so to speak. Goes to geek-school at night, comes to work every morning. Missed two days of work total a few months ago when he had the flu. Single. Not in a relationship as far as I know. Quiet guy. Nice. Well spoken. That's about it."

"Nice guy except for being the son of the eight-ball killer. Blake's real name is Robert R. Blakely."

"And you know that how?" Carter responded.

"Long story Howard. Let two words suffice. Matt McCabe."

"What was the eight-baller's name Johnny?"

"Marvin R. Blakely, Howard. A transplanted Missouri State Trooper. A police officer and a brutal killer of little girls."

"Well, I suppose everyone needs a hobby. What do you think the 'R' stands for?"

"Probably Robert, although we don't have confirmation on that yet."

"Makes sense. Marvin Robert Blakely. Robert Ronald Blakely. Ron Blake. I could try for a search warrant Johnny."

"You could keep your ass right there in Nora's bedroom too. Every once in a while Howard, stick your finger into one of the holes in your chest to remind yourself why. We haven't got this gal yet. We'll get the warrant later. There's a bigger problem right at the moment. The killer has a sixteen year old girl locked up somewhere around here that she is promising to kill within the next forty-eight hours, but I'm pretty sure it's going to be a lot sooner than that if we don't find her. I got a phone call from the killer when I was at your house, although I think it was really Blake."

"What did he say?"

"Gave me a couple of unimaginative threats and a lot of goading. Basically trying to throw me off I think."

"Got any ideas where the girl might be?" Howard asked.

"Not too much. We're on our way to the old warehouse site now. Matt thinks he may be able to turn something up there."

"Maybe. Some of the answers may also be in Blakely's trooper history," Howard mused. "Some may be in his MO as well. Why do you suppose old Marvin used the eight-balls? What was the symbolism there?"

"Don't have a clue Howard, but we might find that out. Matt's going to travel back to Missouri."

"Oh brother. You tell that idiot for me to be damned careful. He'll know what I mean," Carter said.

"Why is it I get the feeling that the two of you have a whole lot going on that I don't know a thing about?"

"Because we do Johnny—that's why. Just wait pal, all things come with time. All things will be illuminated," Carter added mysteriously.

"Have you been into the Department computer Howard?"

"Yes Johnny, I have. I know—bad boy."

"Dangerous, if Blake might have seen. You still have your .40 cal?"

"Yeah, I still got it. Nora has a twelve gauge too. We'll be fine."

"Howard, I want to send an officer."

"No way Johnny. You might as well just take out an ad in the paper saying I'm alive and hiding out here. Please come kill me."

"Well at least lock up tight, and maybe you and Nora could take turns sleeping. One of you awake at all times."

"Nice idea Johnny, but I'm still as weak as a kitten. I doze off all the time. We'll lock up though. We'll be fine. Keep me posted Johnny, Okay?"

"Okay Howard. I'll keep you posted. Later then."

"Later then."

After the phone was turned off and returned to Linh, the car got pretty quiet for a few minutes. Finally Johnny spoke. "Howard says hello, Matt."

Matt was quiet for a few moments, seemingly not hearing. It was as though he had momentarily traveled off to a distant place—much as Howard had at the hospital. "I love that man," he finally responded.

"Like a father?"

"Like a father, or a brother, or maybe like a son," he added cryptically, but without irritation. "Take your pick. And I'm not gay."

Johnny smiled at that one. "I never really thought you were buddy," lying a little. "I was just getting even for your little séance back at the watch shop."

Matt was looking intently at his feet, seemingly examining his right shoe.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I can be a real jerk sometimes."

"Darn," Johnny offered softly. "And I thought I had written the book on jerk-dom."

"We'll take this exit and head up Division," Johnny said, as they reached the downtown Spokane area. "The old warehouse was just a couple of miles from here. Funny, but in all the years since the fire, I've never been back to it, and now that I am, it's for the same old reason."

"Except the killer you're looking for this time is a whole lot more dangerous than the first one." Matt said.

"Yes—except for that," Johnny agreed.

Kyle cursed his bad luck as he struggled through the pine thickets, and as he examined his scratched and bruised body, his anger at O'Brien and the others only grew. What unearthly good fortune that bastard had. O'Brien was alive and well and driving around in a nice clean warm car, and undoubtedly headed for Spokane. What if his brother was wrong? What if O'Brien and his two friends were able to find the new house? Would the girl already be dead? Would they save her if she wasn't, and then come after him?

Kyle knew his brother was right about one thing. Kyle should have killed them all back at the antique store. He had been very sloppy. He had gotten greedy. He couldn't wait. But that had always been one of his big problems, not being able to wait. Back all those years ago when dad was killed, he should have waited then too. But he had been impatient and had signed over all his rights to dad's money to his brother. His brother had told him that he would take care of him, that he would never let anything happen to him. To a certain extent that had been true. His brother had bought him a nice new house. A house with a basement way out in the boonies. He also paid Kyle a monthly allowance. It was large and he was never late with it either. Sometimes when Kyle overspent his allowance on his various toys, his brother would always send him more, and never complain about it either. He always said that there was plenty of money, but that it had to be properly managed by someone who knew what they were doing so that it would last them. He always said that there was more too, but that dad had hidden it, and his brother didn't know exactly where it was. With time though, he had said, it would be found. Then they would really have it made. Then they would live in high style. Kyle had also given him most of dad's stuff. Good stuff too. As a cop, his father had access to a lot of toys. Some was his own, but much had been stolen from the department over the years. Dad didn't like to steal cheap equipment either, Kyle thought with a smile.

His brother had paid for Kyle's operation too. At the time, that was the one thing in the world that Kyle wanted most of all—to be a true man. He wanted to be able to do to a women what had been done to him for all those years. The operation had been botched for sure, but that wasn't really his brother's fault. That was the fault of the damned doctor. Sometimes Kyle tried to think back real hard and remember all the things that the doctor had told him before the operation. He remembered the doctor saying that Kyle had to have realistic expectations. He had said that everything might not turn out exactly as he expected. Had the doctor told him that his new penis wasn't going to work very well? Sometimes Kyle thought that maybe he had, but then again he wasn't so sure. Thinking too hard about all that just gave him a headache.

Kyle had stopped to bathe in an ice cold stream a while ago. There had been a great deal of dried blood to wash away. He had really done a job on the old people. He didn't know exactly what had gotten into him, but once he started in on them he kind of got lost for a while. When he came out of it they were really chopped to pieces. Kyle guessed that might have pretty much been what had happed at the antique store too. Those periods of being lost were happening more and more often these days. Maybe it was because of the medicine that he had to take. Maybe it was something else.

When Kyle had emerged from his ice cold bath, he had stood naked drying in the air and the sun, and as he did, he examined his penis carefully. It was pretty small. It didn't look very nice either. Not at all like the good ones he had seen on the young men in the porno films. Those were always large and long and got hard like they were supposed to. He would watch the men's penises squirt too. Sometimes they had really big loads and it would go on for some time. Kyle wondered what it might feel like to be able to spray out cum like that, and especially into the body of a woman. In his saner moments, he didn't suppose he would ever know. In his saner moments he knew that sewing on another guy's dick wasn't going to solve his problem. In his saner moments he knew that the penis he had wasn't put on by the doctor—that it was something else entirely. That it was Kylie's own clitoris, surgically elongated. The trouble was, that for Kyle, saner moments were becoming ever more increasingly rare.

He had thrown his bloody clothes away and had changed into a spare set that he had in the back of the Bronco. His body was still damp but would dry rather quickly now that a warmish breeze had come up. Kyle had been walking the highway, but well back within the tree line, and out of sight of the road. He was heading south. He wasn't surprised to have passed a roadblock. He knew that the entire State Police force would be looking for him after what he had done back at the store. Walking back now toward the road, Kyle was surprised to see a car pull over and stop by the side of the road. He could hardly believe his good fortune. Maybe he was going to get a little of O'Brien's Irish luck for a change. A middle-aged man emerged and headed off a short distance into the woods. Once a hundred feet or so from the car, he pulled down his pants and squatted to take a dump. His back was only about fifty or so feet away from Kyle. It would have been so easy to simply to walk up behind him and cut his throat or maybe slowly strangle him to death and watch as the shit and piss were slowly expelled from his body in his death throes—but Kyle hesitated. It would slow him down, and time was of the essence now. And another bloodbath would be a big mistake too. Kyle had no more spare clothes, and maybe he was going to have to pass through some more roadblocks. It would not do to have blood on his clothing, even a small speck or two. So, as tempting as this target might be, Kyle was going to have to let this man live.

Bypassing the man as quietly as he could, Kyle worked his way around to the car. Looking inside he was surprised and pleased to see the keys in the ignition. But then why would the guy have taken them and risked losing them in the woods. After all, they were out in the middle of nowhere. Who on earth would steal a car out here?

As Kyle turned the key and the engine roared to life, he could see the man rise from his business and hastily begin to pull up his pants. He could just hear the beginning of a shout as he pulled the car onto the highway and gunned it, heading south. Once again on the move, and once again headed home.

And once more wearing a smile on his face.

As I turned the car off Division Street and onto Allen, I could see two City of Spokane Police Department squad cars parked in front of the building. "Well guys," I said, "looks like the welcome wagon beat us here."

"Welcome _wagons_ , to be more precise," Linh said. "Friend or foe, do you suppose?"

"The answer to that could be like the old man's undershorts," Matt chimed in.

"And just what is that?" Linh asked wearily.

"Depends."

Linh hit him again.

"Okay children," I said. "Time to get serious."

Stopping the car directly behind the two parked and empty City of Spokane patrol cars, I turned off the engine and sat waiting. Nothing was happening. There was no movement anywhere, either near the police cars or the building. I couldn't help but notice that although the building was entirely new, it bore an eerie similarity to the original. Just about the same size, it was like its predecessor a two story warehouse. It looks like it had been empty for a while, perhaps since the recession of 2008. Our side of the building had once had a company name painted on it, but it had long since been removed, and even though there was an outline visible, I couldn't make out the word.

We sat for several minutes, not saying a word. Still there was no action of any kind.

"Where do you suppose they are?" Linh asked.

"Beats the hell out of me," I replied. "Let's go take a look. Extreme caution guys. I don't like the look of this." We exited the car, leaving all of the windows down so the furry guys could get lots of air. "Looks locked up tight," I said. "Can you get in Matt?"

"Not unless I was a locksmith," he replied. "And I don't walk through walls either by the way."

"Okay—I'm still learning, alright?"

"Speaking of having a learner's permit," Linh said, "I may be new at this, but perhaps we shouldn't be all bunched up like we are."

"Absolutely right," I said. "Let's spread out twenty feet. I saw a big receiving door off a dock and a smaller one next to it on the other side as we came in. Let's work our way around there. Guns out guys, discreetly lowered, at the ready."

"Lock and load," Matt intoned with mock seriousness.

"I'll tell you the same as Howard told me a day or two ago Matt—shut up."

"Got it boss."

Linh spoke up. "Johnny?"

"Yeah Linh?"

"There is something I have to tell you two right here and now, and make absolutely no mistake that I am as dead serious as pancreatic cancer. I have very excellent hearing, and even though you were both doing your best to keep your voices down, I heard every word that you and Matt said about me in the car. I am a duly licensed and professional Police Officer and a Sergeant at that and if either one of you think for even one short second that you going to protect me, or watch out for me—or that I would not, or will not be right in the middle and thick of anything that goes down—you are both very sadly mistaken. In other words big guys, you watch your own asses, and I'll watch mine—with all due respect, boss."

I only hesitated a second before I replied. "You're right Linh. My bad. Are we okay?"

Linh smiled. "We okay. And now that we have that one cleared up I'll just say thanks for the thought. Love you guys too. And if I do catch one, everything I own, which is absolutely nothing by the way, goes to my parents. At least see that they get my badge and insurance money."

"Will do Linh," I replied. "After me then."

I reached the smaller of the two doors in about thirty seconds. Stopping an arm's length away, I reached out and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. I guess it was no surprise. "Why can't anything ever just be easy," I said softly to myself. I motioned Matt and Linh to come up. "It's open," I said. "Way too convenient I think, but I guess we take what we can get. I'm going in first. I'll go right and stop along the wall at about twenty feet." I started to say Matt's name, but caught myself in time. "Linh, you're in next. You go left and do the same thing. Matt, you're the caboose. If you don't hear any shooting, take your time. If you do—please hurry up a little," I added with a thin smile. "Linh, if you would be so kind, please stand to the side and open the door for me."

She did as she was told, and I plunged into the building and directly into the pistols of two uniformed City of Spokane police officers.

"Freeze!" one of them said.

I did.

"Hands in the air," said the officer on the left. I did as I was told, and the other came forward to take Howard's Glock out of my hand and my little Smith out of its shoulder holster. It was getting to be a routine.

"Call in the other two," the officer said.

"Linh, Matt, come in please," I said with raised voice. "Guns down. Fingers off the triggers."

They both came through the door and again the officer on the right collected their weapons.

"Now IDs."

Linh and I produced our badges and Matt his Idaho driver's license and concealed weapons permit.

The officer on the left looked them all over at some length. Finally looking up he said to Matt, "Don't you know this weapons permit isn't any good in Washington?" Before Matt could reply, the officer reached into his own shirt pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper and handed it to him. "Better try this one on for size as long as you are over here on this side of the State line," he said with a smile, handing Matt a brand new Washington State Concealed Weapons Permit.

"My name if Frank Daly. People keep telling me that I'm the boss around here, which probably scares me even more than them. Sorry about the greeting Detective O'Brien, but we're being real careful around here, after what happened over in Sparks." Two more cops then emerged from behind a stack of old shelving.

"Can't say I blame you a bit," I answered, as Daly handed back our weapons. "I've seen this killer up close a couple of times now. No amount of caution is too much caution."

"Watters called me to let me know you guys were on your way. He also said you got a mole in the Bellevue Department. I didn't know for sure who was going to be coming through that door, you or him."

"Our mole, as you call him, now has a name. Ron Blake to be precise. We know who he is, but he doesn't know that we do yet. He is the son the old eight-ball killer from about a dozen years ago."

"That was a couple of years before my time," Daly replied. "But I sure heard a lot about him. You're the one that killed him, aren't you O'Brien? Right here in this building if I remember the story right."

"Right here in this place," I corrected. "One building ago however."

"And he's back? Or his son is?"

"The son, and a crazy lady killer as well. She may be a sister, or a girlfriend, or whatever. We're not sure yet. But I'll tell you this though, she is not a woman you want to get cross-wise with. Does the name Marvin R. Blakely mean anything to you, Chief Daly?"

"Sorry, no"

"Well, that was the old eight-baller's real name. Matt just figured that one out."

"Watters said that Mr. McCabe here is a psychic. Said that you wanted him to check this place out and see if he could pick up any vibes. Is that right McCabe? Are you a psychic?"

"Close enough for government work," Matt replied cheerfully.

"Well, please be my guest and vibe away. Don't believe much in that stuff myself, but who the hell knows?"

"Yeah, that's just about the deal, Chief Daly. Knowing the way Matt works, we won't be very long," I said.

"We've checked the building out for you O'Brien. Went over nearly every inch since we've been here. No one hiding in an old cupboard. No booby traps either. So take your time and enjoy. Lock her up when you go. Is there anything else I can do for you O'Brien?"

"Well, as a matter of fact there is. I'd like to send Sergeant Zhou here with one of your men to the County Courthouse and see if they can find anything on property owned by either Marvin or Robert Blakely in the area."

"Will do," Daly replied. "That's a good idea. While you are here in Spokane, all of the resources of the department are at your disposal. If you are good enough for Watters, you're good enough for me. One word of warning though. The department's largesse ends at the city limits. Once you cross that line you are in the County of Spokane and completely out of my jurisdiction. The County Sheriff is a man named Thorton. Frank Thorton. Another Frank, and frankly speaking, I can't stand the man. He is a son of a bitch, and you will get absolutely no help from him whatsoever."

"As Larry the fish guy back in Bellevue keeps telling me—it's always something, isn't it?"

"Larry the what?"

"Never mind Chief. Just a wise old sage I know. Sarcastic son-of-a-bitch—but he knows things. Thanks for the CCW permit."

"No problem O'Brien. Like I said, if Watters says you're good, you're good. I've known him for a lot of years. We play golf once or twice a month or so in the summer. He thinks he lets me win, but the truth of the matter is he can't play worth a shit."

"Give me a call if you find anything Linh. Matt and I will pick you up when you're through."

"Will do Johnny. Later then."

"Later then Linh," I said, shaking my head in amazement at the ability and prowess of this young officer.

Everyone cleared out of the building, leaving Matt and I standing alone near the door.

"So where did it happen?" he asked.

"Where did what happen?"

"Where did you kill Blakely?"

I walked across the open and nearly empty floor to the eastern side. "Right about here," I said. "There would have been a cat walk up there," I said, pointing. "I shot him on the cat walk, and he tried to make it down the stairs, but fell. That's when the place went up. They found his bones just about over there, near where that old barrel is."

"Where did it start?" Matt asked.

"That night?"

"Yes, that night."

"Several miles from here," I said. "We ended up here after a good old-fashioned car chase."

"Tell me about that night. Right from the beginning," Matt urged.

"Okay Matt. I will."

"Howard and I were just off shift when the call came in. We had stopped for a night cap before we went home. It was a little place down on Sprague called The Copper Mug. A lot of the police drank there—guess it was something about the name. It was our regular watering hole. That's why the Chief knew where to find us."

I sat down on a box and made myself comfortable as my mind traveled back over the years.
CHAPTER NINETEEN

Eastern Washington

Tuesday Afternoon – July 17, 2012

Missy awoke with a start as light from the overhead bulb momentarily blinded her. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust and then make out the stark figure of a hulking young man looming over her.

"Hello honey—I'm home," he sneered. "Miss me?"

Missy began a sneer of her own, but before she could, Kyle backhanded her hard across the face and then slapped her even harder with his open hand. Missy sharply drew in her breath as she almost cried out and her nose began to bleed, but still she refused to say a word to her tormentor.

Picking up the garden hose from the floor and turning on the ice cold water, Kyle began to spray Missy and the wooden table with the jet, washing away a week's accumulation of dried urine and fecal material. Missy began to shiver and shake violently in the cold wetness. Kyle then twisted off the spray nozzle and turned down the water volume to half. By turns he forced the hose into her body, first into the anus and then the vagina, carefully washing away the discharged debris off the table and into the floor drain. Missy clenched her mouth tightly to keep from crying out. Again disappointed by her silence Kyle roughly grabbed her face with his big hand and squeezing hard, forced her mouth open and inserted an opened water bottle. Miss downed several gulps and then stopped, holding but not swallowing the large last mouthful.

"Drink bitch!" Kyle shouted at her. "I don't want you dead yet."

In shock and pain, Missy still would not yield to this monster. She had decided in the past week that if and when this moment came she would enrage him as much as possible, hoping that he would completely lose control and kill her immediately. She had given up all hope of rescue during her long dark days and nights in his cellar dungeon. She knew she had more pain to endure, but she wanted it to be over and she wanted it to be over quick. Therefore her only response to his demand to swallow more water was to expel all of the water still in her mouth and spray Kyle in the face with it. Taken by surprise, he backed up a step and stood stupidly wiping the water and spittle off his face with his hand.

"Bitch!" he screamed at her as he stepped forward again and began to pummel her hard in the stomach with both of his fists. Again and again they came down onto her defenseless body. The shock and pain of the sudden brutal assault was too much for her as she completely lost control of her bowels, spewing the table once again with a spray of brown semi-liquid fluid. At the same time she also expelled a jet of vomit from her mouth again directly onto the hands and torso of her attacker. Once more taken by surprise, Kyle backed off a step as Missy's body heaved, trying desperately to catch her breath.

Kyle was now so angry that he was beyond speech, except to softly say, "That's it," as he walked to the other side of the basement and to his tool pegboard. There he selected a hatchet. It had a gently curved wooden handle about ten inches long and a razor sharp edge, endlessly honed by him during periods when he was bored. Picking it up from off the pegboard and examining it carefully, he slowly returned to the table.

Missy watched him return, again smiling a little to see that her plan was working so well. She was more than ready to die. She had made her peace during the long nights in the basement. She firmly believed in God and Jesus and fully expected to be with them in the next minute. She was pretty sure she was going to be alright, but began to say a silent prayer nonetheless. She wondered if her friend Debby was going to be there to meet her, and perhaps her beloved grandmother as well.

Approaching the table, Kyle stopped at the foot of it.

"Well my little black whore," Kyle said softly. "Now you are going to die. But it will not be quickly. It will be in pieces, and it will be painful. It is such a shame that I had to leave all my good tools in Idaho, but we have to make do with what we have, do we not? I leave it to you slut. Where shall I start? The right leg off—or perhaps just the foot? Maybe you would prefer the left. Or maybe I should start right between the legs, right at that beautiful hairy little muff. What do you say to that idea? How do you think that is going to feel as my axe slices into it? I am betting it is going to hurt a LOT. I will ask you for a report in a minute or two. Let's get started then."

With that Kyle walked to the head of the table and removed Missy's handcuffed hands from the hook above her head and jerking them both downward sharply and savagely, refastened them to another hook at the base of the table. The sudden shift of position after a week's time sent immediate and excruciating pain shooting throughout her body, especially in her shoulders and arms. Kyle then even more tightly drew up both of her leg restraints, forcing her legs even wider apart. Missy groaned deeply as it felt as though her pelvic region were about to be pulled apart. Her hips were now slightly raised off the table and her genitals fully exposed to him. He pulled her head up by her hair and shoved a rough wooden block under it so that she would be able to look down and see what he was about to do to her. Missy was utterly defenseless. Kyle lovingly stroked her pubic hair and the entrance to her vagina for a few seconds, spreading the lips far apart and stroking her clitoris with his fingers, and then returned to the foot of the table and again picked up the hatchet. He dramatically raised it high above his head and with a savage smile and all of the force he had, brought it down in a single stroke as Missy let out an involuntary yelp.

With a loud thump the hatchet buried itself deeply into the wood of the table directly between Missy's legs, perhaps a half an inch away from her body but not touching it. Missy let out a long ragged breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

Kyle was laughing uncontrollably now, clearly enjoying the game and the physical and emotional pain that he was inflicting on his victim. He then climbed onto the table and straddled Missy, sitting on her chest and small delicate breasts with his large buttocks and grinding them into her. His back was to her. The air went out of her lungs as he bounced up and down on her chest again and again. Pulling the hatchet out of the table and raising it high over his head with both hands once more, he deftly turned it around and brought it down with every bit of energy he possessed and rammed all ten inches of the wooden handle directly into her body.

This time Missy screamed aloud and thrashed on the table as much as her restraints would allow, as Kyle pulled the hatchet free and rammed it home again—once, twice, three and four more times. Kyle, now shrieking with laughter, pushed down on the hatchet blade as hard as he could, almost making it almost completely disappear into her body as well, as he savagely and brutally twisted the blade right and left and completely around with all his might. Once more Missy screamed out in agony and arched her naked body, actually raising the much heavier man a few inches into the air. Finally, her eyes rolling back into her head, she mercifully passed out.

Kyle noticed now that he had attained a rare erection. Even though his penis was small, it pushed hard against the fabric of his pants. Kyle unzipped his fly and pulled his engorged member free. He slowly began to thrust his pelvis and hardened penis against Missy's body. He was surprised at how little effort it took for the pressure to begin to build inside his body. Pressure that could not be denied. Groaning loudly and thrusting ever harder and grinding his penis between her breasts, he climaxed within a minute, racking sobs shaking his body as he spent himself. No fluid escaped him, but the intense aftershocks traveled slowly up and down his body as he found himself temporarily unable to move. Never before in his life had he experience an orgasm such as this and it had taken every bit of energy out of him.

Kyle slowly crawled off the table and examined his victim, now lying motionless and silent on the table. Her eyes were open but vacant, nearly fixed and staring, her neck bent sharply upward as it rested on the block. She seemed to be semi-conscious. Kyle could feel a faint pulse, but realized that the shock of the assault had been too much for her and that she was near death. Frustrated and angry with himself for having killed her so quickly, he again turned on the water and sprayed her unresponsive body. The water did not revive her. Neither did the ammonia that he soaked into a rag and held beneath her nose. Missy simply lay there, motionless and limp, slipping farther and farther away. The head of the hatchet still protruded grotesquely from her vagina, buried as it was completely up to its shiny blade. A trickle of blood worked its way from out of her body and slowly down the length of the table, dripping onto the floor. Kyle removed the block and left her that way as he climbed the stairs out of the basement.

He would come back later and check and see if she were awake, or if she had died from shock as he expected would be the case. No sense in doing anything more with her right now—she wouldn't feel it anyway. Kyle was tired. It had been a really long and hard day. He badly needed a long hot soapy shower and a change of clothes. He needed something to eat and some rest. Yes he thought, he would grab some sleep and come back in a few hours and see if she were dead or not. Perhaps if she wasn't, he could still have some fun with her while he finished her off. After he pulled that hatchet out, there was sure to be lots of room in there to put in a bunch of pool balls. Her birth canal must be a whole lot larger now Kyle thought with amusement. Yes—he wanted to get a lot of balls in there and down her damned throat as well.

At any rate, Missy was going to be dead and buried in a shallow grave out back behind the horse shed not too long after dark. Then in a week or so, Kyle would exhume the rapidly decomposing remains and deposit them in a heap on Cherry Street. There would still be plenty left for a positive identification, but ole Missy sure wouldn't be smelling too sweet by then. Kyle wanted to send O'Brien—and Spokane—a real message this time. Let O'Brien and his dick-wad friends' deal with that.

Missy was getting to be boring now. She had become a wet blanket—a real stick in the mud. No fun at all. After his tremendous climax with her she had almost totally lost her sexual allure for him.

Time to finish it.

Time to move on . . . Time to go hunting for a new one.

The afternoon sun cast an eerie glow on the floor of the warehouse as it slanted in the dust covered windows. Matt and I had found a couple of old wooden boxes and were using them as chairs as we sat talking with each other.

"As far as Howard and I could tell, the eight-ball killer's first victim was in early 1999," I explained. "That's at least as far as Spokane was concerned. God only knows how many kids Blakely might have killed back in Missouri before he pulled up stakes and moved over here. At first the pool ball in the throat was an oddity. After the second victim it became a pattern—what they call in my business a MO, or modus operandi. That is to say a person's manner or method of operating or functioning. Howard and I were the lead investigators on the case. We had worked together a little before that, but the eight-ball killings were our first major case."

"The police kept the tidbit about the pool balls quiet, standard practice to help sort out the whack-jobs that would confess to anything. We had some back in those days that insisted they were the second shooter on the grassy knoll, although they would have had to have been toddlers at the time. There was even more to it than the pool balls in the neck of course. Sometimes Blakely shoved them into other places as well. It was plain that he was a deviate and pedophile right along with being a good old garden variety sexual psychopath."

"Did you know Howard a long time before that?" Matt asked.

"No. After Harvard and the sordid business with Sheila, I got sick of the east coast and headed west. Although I was born in Texas I never cared much for the heat so I picked a place a whole lot cooler and wetter. Spokane seemed like a good combination of urbanity and rusticity with some nice green mountains to boot. Full of working class bars too—no small attraction. Besides, I figured that I didn't stand much of a chance of running into anyone I knew way out here. I wrote for a while—none too successfully as you well know. It wasn't until after Marvin and I traded lead and my police days were over that I moved on to the Seattle area and invented Jack McGuire. Then my writing career really took off. The studio apartment became the mansion on Mercer Island, and the rusty old Chevy Blazer turned into a red Porsche, with Jacko footing all the bills."

"Howard and I joined the Spokane Department at just about the same time. He was an experienced cop and I was a rookie homicide investigator. He took me under his wing and showed me the ropes. He literally taught me everything he knew. Saved me years in the school of moldy cheese and rough experience. We became fast friends. I was a bachelor in those days and he and Jan would have me over to their house for Sunday dinners and holiday get-togethers and so forth. I guess you could say we were family."

"How many did Blakely kill here, do you think?" Matt asked.

"As near as we could figure, maybe an even dozen or so."

"And how did he dispose of them?"

"Most he left on the street. We thought he probably rolled them out of his trunk. A couple in the river. Two didn't have any pool balls in them at all, but the rest of the MO was close enough to credit him with the killings anyway."

"Why do you think he skipped the pool balls in those cases?"

"Not entirely sure, but we could speculate that it was simply a case of being pressed for time for one reason or another, or maybe he was just running short of the damned things. You might think that it would be easy to trace the purchase of a large amount of pool balls, but you would be wrong. Turns out that they are sold by the bag. There are millions of them sold every year for either new tables or as replacements for worn out balls. Howard and I didn't have any idea that there were so many pool tables in the country, let alone the world. It's a pretty popular game."

"And you and Howard never got a good idea of what he was trying to say with the pool balls?"

"Nope. Maybe he was a pool shark, but no expert we ever talked to could match his profile up with any known player. Maybe he simply liked bright shiny things. Maybe he just thought it was a catchy trademark."

"Lots of maybes."

"Yup," I agreed. "A lot of these type of serial killers operate pretty close to home. For everybody that was found, we stuck a pin in a map of the area—again standard police practice. By the time the tenth dropped off body was found, Howard and I realized that the center was just about in the Gonzaga district of town."

"Where was he getting the girls?"

"Usually off the Interstate. Runaways for the most part."

"Did you think it might have been a university student?"

"Yes we did. That was a pet theory of Howard's. We played with that idea for a long time, but nothing ever came of it. Lots of people live in the U district that aren't students."

"How about teachers?"

"Bingo. That was my theory—now proven wrong of course. But for some reason I got it in my head that he might have been a university professor and that his next victim was going to be killed or found near or on the University campus. It was—and as it turned out, that victim was his last. We assigned about four or five plain clothes along with the regular campus cops to patrol the grounds after dark, when most of the victims were dumped. They didn't have to wait long. After about two weeks of surveillance he made his move. He tried to dump a body in an alley off Cherry Street, just on the edge of the campus. One of the campus cops spotted him and tried to stop him. Bad idea. He took a bullet for his efforts, but he lived. He radioed for help and the chase was on. Marvin was driving a stolen car and he got a good one. He quickly lost the cops. That's when the Chief called Howard and me. We were just off duty, but only a few minutes away, so we joined in."

"Then what happened?"

"By the time we got to the U district, no one had any idea where he was. We were all pretty sure he had gotten away clean. Howard and I pulled over about eight or nine blocks north of here and were waiting to see if any of the other units were going to be able to pick him up again."

"How come no helicopter?"

"We would have loved to, but the County only had one back then and of course it was in the shop. Anyway, we sat there and waited. We wanted to nail this guy real bad. We wanted to end it that night. We were getting good and tired of scrapping up dead kids all over town. We would have waited there all night if we would have had to."

"So what did you do?

"Well Matt, I'll confess to you what we did that night. Why the hell not? We prayed. That's what we did. That's right—a prayer. A good old fashioned Dear God help us prayer. I still had a little faith left in those days. Howard of course never lost his. So that's what we did—sat in our squad car and prayed for help."

"And did you get any?"

"Must have. Within about three minutes Blakely's car, fitting the description of the APB perfectly, came cruising slowly past us. I thought at the time he was probably trying to work his way out of the area, but now I think it was probably the other way around—he was trying to work his way back into the area. We put on our lights and went after him. He answered with about a half dozen shots at us and took off at high speed. None of his shots hit anything."

"How did you end up here?"

"We chased him for probably twenty minutes, and by the time it ended we weren't the only ones either. He had us and two other patrol cars on his tail and pretty much figured out that he wasn't going to get away, so he made it to this point and ditched his car about half a block away. We could see him running toward the old warehouse and we saw him dive into it. We went in after him."

"Without backup?"

"Yeah—without backup. Damned near got ourselves killed for our initiative as well," I laughed.

"Where were the other two police cars?" Matt asked.

"They pulled up behind us and radioed for backup like the good cops they were. They had enough sense to know that Howard and I could have been running into a pre-set trap. No complaint from me. They all had families at home they wanted to live to see again. They did right."

Matt got up off his box and stuck his hands into his pockets. It was an unusual gesture for him. He wasn't a hands in pockets type guy. As time would go by I would learn to be tipped off by his body language, but at this point I didn't know him that well. He walked slowly around and behind me. Matt placed his left hand on my left shoulder from behind.

"I need to be away for a minute or two," he said. "Just keep talking Johnny. You're doing great. If I'm not back in those two minutes I'm probably not coming. Go on without me. End it today."

With that I felt his hand go off my shoulder. Realizing what he was about to do I spun and tried to grab him. Instead I fell headlong off the box and hard onto the floor as my arms closed around empty air. I found myself looking up and across a completely vacant warehouse.

I was the only living soul inside.

Spokane, Washington

July 2, 2001

11:20 PM

From the roof of the car dealership across the street Matt had a clear view of the burning warehouse. The sound of the dozen or so earlier shots had faded, just as all of the windows blew out on the west side of the large building. The now familiar acrid odor of burning propane assailed his nostrils. Perhaps another half minute went by before Matt saw the side door of the warehouse open and a large man stagger out carrying a smaller man over his shoulder. He was met with a dozen blue uniformed cops. All their activity was focused on the injured man. No one paid the slightest bit of attention to the front door where just a few minutes before both Howard Carter and Johnny O'Brien had entered. This was where Matt now focused. In just a split second of time, the door opened and a slightly built person emerged. Quickly closing the door behind, the person crossed the short end of the parking lot and the street and started up a sidewalk heading north.

Matt was almost instantly down the fire escape and crossing the same street on the other side, again bypassing all of the police as they radioed for an ambulance and fire truck. He paralleled the disappearing figure on the other side and followed about one hundred yards behind, trying to keep to the shadows. As he watched the person walk under a street lamp he could clearly see the long hair and pig tails trailing down her back.

So there was someone else inside, he thought. Someone unseen by either Carter or O'Brien. "Now let's see where she's off to," Matt said softly to himself. Won't be long now Missy, he thought. Hang in there girl. It won't be long now.

The girl reached Second Street and turned right. Matt continued on his sidewalk until he could see down Second. There was no one on the Street. She had disappeared. Quickly Matt crossed the road and double timed it up Second, trying to pick her up again. Matt noticed an alley to the left and turned into it. Again this way seemed to be devoid of activity. He was about to leave the alley and continue up Second when a bit of movement caught his eye, just to the left of a series of three trash cans. Slowly Matt circled the cans and as he came around and was able to see behind the largest one, a solitary figure lunged at him. Matt was caught off balance and as the lighter weight girl crashed into his chest he was knocked to the ground.

Matt threw up his arm just in time to deflect the flashing knife blade arching toward his face as the girl snarled "Who are you? Why are you following me?" Matt was able to grab the wrist of the girl's hand holding the knife and keep it away from him, but he was surprised at the strength she possessed. For several seconds she continued to try to stab Matt, but finally seeing that she was not going to be able to do so, broke off the attack and quickly jumped to her feet, and breaking his grip on her wrist. She ran up the alley and into a gate off the back of a large and dark old two story house perhaps a hundred feet away. The gate slammed shut behind her with a bang. Matt could hear her footsteps retreating up the back wooden steps and the sound of the back door opening and closing behind her. Regaining his feet, he walked to the gate where the girl had disappeared and noted the location of the house. It would be very easy to return here in daylight.

"Got you Marvin," Matt said to himself. "Now back to O'Brien, but not before one more stop." With that Matt turned away from the gate and again vanished into the darkness.

I was having a fine time talking to Matt's empty wooden box and was just getting to the good part of the story when Matt reappeared—again behind me and again with his left hand on my shoulder. I would have jumped had I not been expecting it.

"Next time you decide to bail you might give me a moment's notice," I said to him, more than just a little irritated. "Have a nice trip?"

"Yeah, except for the part where I almost got my ears lowered—literally," Matt responded.

"What?"

"Never mind. I'll fill you in on the way."

"Where?"

"Marvin Blakely's house. Just a couple of blocks from here. If we're lucky that's where Missy's going to be. Oh and by the way Johnny, don't try to use slang. It doesn't suit you and you're way too old for it."

I shot him a dirty look and had just attained my feet and was moving toward the door behind Matt when my cell phone rang. "O'Brien," I said, punching the talk button.

"Johnny, its Linh. I've got news—and it's not good."

"Talk fast Linh. Genius boy here has found Marvin's old house. Just around the corner. We're on our way now."

"That's why I'm calling Johnny. I found it too—in the public records. Trouble is there's no one there. It's been bought and sold several times since Blakely owned it. It's vacant now. The Chief ordered a raid. SWAT is there right now, just off Second Street. It's totally empty. No sign of any kind of activity there whatsoever. Complete dead end. No other likely Blakely properties anywhere near this area either."

"Shit. Hold on a minute Linh," I said as a second call came in. "I'm putting you on hold."

"O'Brien."

"Johnny. It's Watters. Anything new?"

"We've hit another brick wall. Nothing new about that. The eight-ball killer's name was Marvin Blakely. We've found his old house here in Spokane, but it's been empty for years. Linh's been in public records. She can't find any other properties owned by a Marvin, Robert or Ronald Blakely. We're kind of getting up against it."

"More than you know Johnny. Sorry to be the bearer of more bad news, but it seems your gal is probably out of Idaho. Guy stopped along the side of the road just north of Spirit Lake to take a crap this morning. While he's doing his business someone comes out of the woods and steals his car and takes off heading south."

"Didn't kill the guy?" I asked Watters. I could see Matt walking out of the building in my peripheral vision.

"Nope. She must have been in a hurry. The guy pitched a real bitch about the woods not being safe to take a shit in anymore, but I guess he shut up when the State Police explained to him that he is probably the luckiest man on the planet—and why."

"What kind of car?"

"Honda Accord, dark blue. We're looking for it statewide and also in Washington. Trouble is that it took the guy a while to walk to a phone. He had left his cell in the car. But the time the police got the report she could have been anywhere."

"Smart phone?"

"No such luck Johnny. No GPS."

"Are we sure it's her?"

"Not a hundred percent, but from what he could see of her as she pulled away it sounds about right. The biggest tip-off is that the guy described her as a man. Burly, with sandy colored hair. Admittedly he only got a quick look, but I think we have to assume it's her."

"Yeah, I agree," I admitted.

"From the time she got the car and the short drive back to Spokane, if that's where she has the kid, I think you have to consider her to be home. Sorry Johnny."

I let out a low whistle.

"Johnny. Listen to me," Watters said, trying to bring me up. You're a good cop and you've been around a long time. You know the odds. You've got to face the fact that you've probably lost this one. But maybe you haven't lost the next one. After this girl there's going to be another, and another, and another. Stop it Johnny. Find her. Stop her."

"Got any advice on how Watters?"

"Yeah—matter of fact I do. Ask yourself what Jack McGuire would do. Forgot to mention before that I can read. The wife loves your stuff and she passes them on to me."

I chuckled a little at that one. "Thanks Captain."

"Get back to work Johnny. After this is over, one way or the other, drinks are on me."

"That's one I'm going to hold you to my friend. Talk to you later."

"Later."

I lowered the phone for just a second taking in the importance of this information and exactly what it meant to Missy Spencer. My heart sank to my shoes as I raised it again and filled Linh in on the latest developments, and instructed her to get back to us as fast as she could. I hit the end button and again lowered the phone to my side just as Matt walked back inside with Chi-Chi in his arms and Sammy in tow. I looked at the quizzical expression on Matt's face and simply said, "Game over Matt. We lose. We're out of time. Linh found the house too. It's empty. Has been for years. Our killer got hold of a car and if this area is where she has Missy, she's already home." I could see the pain on his face.

"I'm sorry Johnny."

"Yeah, me too. What now?"

"Sit your butt back down on that box while I feed and water the guys—that's what. If we can't act, we talk. If we can't act, we think. We come up with something—anything. We don't give up as long as there is a dog's chance in hades for that girl. That's what we do."

"Okay. We owe her that. What you got pal?"

"I made a side trip before I came back. All the way to Missouri. I got a little more info. Let's see if we can make some sense of it."

"Tell me everything that happened Matt. Linh's on her way back. Then we'll make a new plan."

"Right on Johnny. Okay—here's the deal. I talked to a guy in the office of the Missouri Fraternal Order of Police. He never personally met Marvin Blakely, but he sure was a talker and a fount of information about the various scandals old Marv was involved in. Rumors of improper conduct swirled around Blakely for years—a lot of it allegations of sexual advances toward female officers, female suspects and so on. Also suspicion of pedophilia. Seems Blakely and a partner named Charles White were big volunteers for going around to area schools and giving lectures on police work—like on career day—that sort of thing. Sometimes it seems they got a little too close to the kiddies for the comfort of the teachers, so that gig ended pretty fast. I think you might have been right about him being a teacher. Perhaps he was back to his old tricks after he moved to Spokane, but maybe he bumped it up a bit to college level."

"Was White pretty much cut out of the same cloth?" I asked.

"Yeah—and even more so than you know. Old Marvin is dead of course, but Charles White is still very much alive. He has been the guest of the Missouri State Prison system for the past fifteen years. That is until two weeks ago when he was paroled, five years short of his original sentence—for good behavior of all things."

"Come on Matt. The suspense is killing me. What was he in for—kiddy porn?"

"Not quite. Seems you can skate for a quite long time when you're doing the touchy-feely with third graders. But the state gets pretty upset right now when you start stealing money. As in lots and lots of money. White and a partner knocked over a fully loaded armored car. The car had just left its third bank and hadn't yet made deliveries to two more on its route. They got well over half a million, all of which indicates a fair degree of inside information."

"They?"

"Yeah. White and a partner. He never would roll over on the other guy. The partner got most of the cash. All they ever found on White was a few thousand, apparently a down payment on bigger and better things to come. The money was marked—banks do that a lot, so they know it was from the heist. The partner probably hid the money, and White and he were to share when White got out of prison."

"And the partner was Blakely." I stated it as a fact.

"Sure seems likely. Blakely was suspected from the start, but they never could prove it. But even at that, what with all the other problems over the years, Blakely was let go. He probably moved over here pretty quick after. Question is—did he hide the money in Missouri or bring it with him to Washington."

"And just how much does all of this have to do with our situation," I added.

"Right. I'm guessing probably not that much with our killer, but a whole lot with Mr. Blake back in Bellevue."

"Who the hell is she anyway?"

"Don't know for sure. According to the guy I talked to, Marvin had only one child—Robert Ronald Blakely. Turns out we were right about the middle name. No other kids that he knew of. The wife was named Ruth, and a real battle-axe according to reputation. He had never met her or Robert either."

"Was?"

"Yeah. She's dead too—apparently a suicide."

"One sweet family. Where's White now?"

"Ah yes—the plot thickens. No one knows where White is. He never went home to his last known address, now the home of his ex-wife. He was due to report in to his assigned parole officer within three days of leaving prison, but he never did that either. I'd say he is probably on the trail of that half-mil, but now that Marvin is gone, courtesy of you, where do you suppose he is likely to head?"

"After the son. After Ron Blake. Mr. Blake may not know it, but he may be in almost as much danger as Missy Spencer."

"He could be all right. From the way White sounds, he is fully capable of doing a slice and dice on Blake to get what he wants."

"Could he be our killer?" I asked.

"Nope. White's about six foot or better and skinny as a rail according to reports. Also a lot older than our guy—or girl—or whatever the heck it is. Moreover Johnny, I think he may be nursing a grudge. How did he end up with the marked money? If Marvin parceled it out, he may have given it to White intentionally—and then dropped a dime on him so to speak."

"Then why not roll on Blakely?"

"Because then, while White would have the satisfaction of seeing Blakely in prison, he'd lose out on the money. He knew Blakely was going to be under a lot of suspicion and would have to hide the cash. As long as Blakely wasn't caught with the money, nothing could ever be proven—it was simply a case of White's word against Blakely. It would be unlikely that White would be believed as he was now in the big house and would say almost anything to try to better his situation. My guess is that White knew where Blakely went and knew what he became. He knew that Blakely was figuratively behind the eight-ball—a rich, but at the same time poor man."

"Makes sense."

Matt continued. He was on a roll now. "And if White knew that Blakely was dead for the past twelve years, he would go after the son now."

"Why would he not think Ron Blake already had the money?"

"Because I'll bet he's guessed that Ron Blake doesn't know where the money is either. Why would Marvin have told him? He didn't expect to be killed by you that night. So in other words, White is probably hunting Blake for the money at the same time Blake is hunting White for the money. Blake would know that White is out of prison. He would have been following the case for years. He knows just where White will head too—right after him. He'll be waiting. It's Frankenstein vs. the Wolf man—may the nastiest monster win. Blake may think that White has a clue where the cash is hid. I think that's why all this is happening right now—all orchestrated by Ron Blake. A giant smokescreen so to speak, and one you and I can't ignore because it involves the life of an innocent young woman. We're chasing a mindless killer across two states—a killer who cares little or nothing about the money, while the real crime—the real core of this whole entire thing, is being played out somewhere else."

"We're on a crazy-assed merry go round, aren't we?"

"Or on The Orient Express, although I seriously doubt that Agatha Christie ever wrote one quite this sick and wrong."

"What this about getting your ears lowered Matt?"

"When I left here, I went directly to the old warehouse twelve years ago. Carter did a nice job of hauling you out of there by the way. You and he thought that you three, including old Marv, were the only ones inside the building. As it turned out that wasn't true. Our lady killer was in there too. She probably went in a side door or perhaps a window. Anyway, she saw the whole thing, and she saw Marvin die. After Carter brought you out, she escaped—the same way you and Carter went in. She was a lot younger then, barely a kid. And also a lot skinnier. I followed her to Marvin's old house, the one that's empty now. She picked me up following her—probably from almost the first moment, and hid behind some trash cans in the alley behind the house. That's where she jumped me and tried to put a knife in my eye. We struggled for a few seconds and she broke away and ran into the house. I went to Missouri and then back here."

"She was probably trying to put that knife in your neck more like it," I said. "A sweet little habit she has kept for lo these many years, and a skill she has finely honed—pun intended by the way. How come she didn't kill you?"

"She wasn't all that strong back then."

"How come you didn't kill her and just end it?"

"I'll be honest Johnny. I could have killed her. Two problems. One—I'll not sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that she is our present day killer, although it certainly seems likely. Two—and the biggest problem—is interference. I can't change things, only observe. Just by having that small contact, some things may have changed already. Things that we don't know about yet, but things that may yet affect this case. If I had killed her who knows what might have happened? Perhaps the girl we are trying to save right now might have died in a car accident six years ago. Impossible to tell. All things are connected. Trust me when I tell you that I've had a fair amount of very bloody and painful experience in that area. Sometimes it's hard enough just to change the present."

"I know you're right Matt, but all things considered, it might have been a lot better for Missy if she had died in a car wreck. Chances are she's not having a very good afternoon."

"What now Johnny?"

"Well, let's get our two well fed friends here back in the car. Us too. We'll wait for Linh—she shouldn't be too long. Then her and I are going to do something we should have done two days ago, and you are welcomed to join in if you would like. Tell you the truth Matt, I've got nothing right now. Not an idea in the world of what to do next or where to go, short of going back to Bellevue and strangling Blake half to death—and I can't do that because there is still a faint hope that Missy might be alive—Blake really boxed us in didn't he?"

"Yeah, he sure did. That was his plan. So what are you going to do Johnny?"

"Something I haven't done in a little over twelve years, Matt."

He raised an eyebrow, again almost Spock-like.

"I'm going to pray."
CHAPTER TWENTY

Bothell, Washington

Tuesday Afternoon – July 17, 2013

Howard Carter was awakened from his nap by the sound of the telephone ringing in the next room. Odd, he thought, that no real pain had ever returned since that first night in the hospital. Only periods of tightness in his chest and quite a lot of fatigue—both of which Nora assured him were quite normal. He had not even needed to take any of the pain pills that Dr. Ganesh had sent along with him. Nora had answered the phone and he could hear her now chatting with someone although he could not make out the words. She was one of the few that Howard was personally aware of that still had a house land line and depended solely on it for all communication, eschewing cell phones completely. But then Nora had always been a little old-fashioned—or perhaps more like it, simply didn't wanted to be bothered by a little electronic monster ringing at her when she was out and about.

Nora could certainly afford to have both if she had wanted to. She was plenty well off, although one wouldn't guess it by the way she lived. Richard Davis--Nora's late husband, had provided well for her, both before his death and after, leaving her not only a sizeable life insurance policy, but quite a few decent income producing investments as well. Howard had asked his sister many times to come live with him in Bellevue after Jan had left him, but Nora had always politely refused. She had said that it wasn't so much wanting to hang on to past memories with Dick as it was a desire to remain independent. She often said that she didn't want anyone making decisions for her at least until they wheeled her in a chair into a nursing home. She also said that she didn't care to become a nanny to her "pain in the butt" brother. Carter always smiled a little at that—it was probably all too true.

Nora and Dick's house had been purchased quite a few years ago and in those days the sprawling lot was absolutely near nothing at all. In the time since neighbors had begun to encroach as the wilderness of Bothell shrunk. On some summer days Nora could hear the neighbor's children playing in their backyard pools, but not that often. There was still no sight of nearby houses at all with far too many intervening pine trees in between. It was a large white clap board house with a smallish bedroom upstairs and two larger ones on the main floor. Another was located in the basement, along with her root cellar and food storage center. It mostly consisted of canings from the summer garden and fruit trees. Also a fair amount of dried rice, beans and water. Independence was certainly Nora's way.

Howard could hear the conversation from the living room end and Nora make her way toward Howard's bedroom. The old wooden floors creaked considerably. The bedroom door opened slightly and Nora's face appeared.

"Howard, you awake?" she said fairly loudly.

"I am now woman," he replied with a small amount of fake irritation in his voice. He always liked to get her goat just a little bit.

"Well brother, I just got a call from Del Peters. He says for you to rest all you need to this afternoon because he is coming up here to see you after work."

"Call him back and tell him thanks but I don't need a mother duck right now."

"Del also said to tell you he knows you don't need a mother duck right now and that it isn't a social call."

"What then?" Howard asked.

"He's bringing someone he wants you to talk to."

"Jes. . ." Howard caught himself in time to avoid another cussword rebuke from Nora. "Do you think that idiot has the faintest idea that I'm supposed to be in hiding up here?" Howard actually was irritated this time.

"Yeah, I'm sure he does brother," Nora replied with a fair degree of irritation herself. "And don't you dare say even one single bad word about Del either. I've known him almost as long as you and liked him a heck of a lot better for most of it."

"Yeah, I know that's true Nora. Anyway, who the. . ." Howard hesitated as he inserted another word for the hell he had intended. "Heck is he bringing up here—a reporter from the associated press?"

"Not quite. Another cop. Someone he says you and he needs to talk to. Said his name was Ron Blake."

That name brought Howard's eyes fully open. "Well, well. Del always did have a heck of a nose on him. Guess he is smelling something a little rotten in Denmark too and plans to do something about it. Dell always liked taking the 'bull by the horns' as he said about a million times. What time Nora?"

She shrugged. "He didn't say exactly. Just after work."

"Well, that'll give us a few hours to make some suitable arrangements. Come on in sister and pull up a chair. I'll fill you in on what's going on—and then I'm going to need your help."

"Sounds like it might be fun," Nora ventured.

"It may be something, but fun might not be exactly the right word. Grab me that cell phone off the dresser too Nora. I'm going to be needing to call Johnny."

* * *

Spokane, Washington

Tuesday afternoon

"What do you mean you haven't prayed in twelve years? You said you prayed on the drive over here that Lucas McCabe wouldn't be a hack. What—now you're saying you were lying?" Linh sounded pretty teed off. I was belatedly finding out that she took the whole religion thing pretty seriously.

"Well," I responded a little tentatively, "that might have been a figure of speech Linh." I was beginning to feel a little more than uncomfortable and maybe wishing that she hadn't gotten back quite so quickly. Matt was no help, standing by the car a good twenty feet away and seemingly examining his feet as he leaned his back against the hood. He held the stupid cat in his arms. Some partner.

"And what _about_ Mr. McCabe?" Linh continued, still angered. "He gave his life to help us. Have either of you two even thought to say a prayer for him, or to thank God up above for what he did for us?"

Under other circumstances I might not have been inclined to speak poorly of the dead, but as it was, old Lucas McCabe was getting instant promotion to sainthood while at the same time I was once more and in the very same place being laid low, albeit this time without the bullet. "Don't forget," I offered lamely in my defense, "he turned us down at first. Said he was in a hurry because he wanted to go for a walk."

Of course Matt picked this moment to chime-in. "Oh, I can clear that one up," he said. "Lucas wasn't into long afternoon walks, feeding pigeons in the park, playing checkers or any of that other old guy stuff. He was going to close up the store and head over to the nursing home on Tenth Street. Lucas has an. . ." Matt hesitated for a second and then finished—"ex-wife in the last stages of Alzheimer's. We don't expect her to last the week. Sam and I had just come from there."

"Oh God," Linh groaned. "Why didn't you guys say something?"

"I probably would have turned you down too if Johnny hadn't shown me the letter. After reading that, it was pretty obvious that Missy took precedence. No one would have agreed with that more than Cindy. There was never a soul, either human or animal in need of help that she turned down. There isn't much of anything that can be done for her at this point. She doesn't even know we're there anymore, but we go anyway. The same as she would have been there for me if the situation were reversed."

It was an odd comment and his eyes glistened a bit in the sunlight as he made it. I ventured a question. "Is Cindy your mother?"

He hesitated again. "No—Cindy—Cynthia Matthews to be exact, was as I said, an ex-wife—not my mother. Cindy was very close to Lucas in age."

It was obvious he had strong feelings for this woman, feelings that were shared by both Lucas and Sam. "I'm very sorry," I offered.

"Thank you."

The exchange had taken some of the steam out of Linh.

"So just which one of us is going to ask in prayer for God to help us find and save this girl?" she said.

It was my turn to examine my feet. "Probably shouldn't be me. I haven't had too much truck with the big guy for quite a long time now." Linh glared at me again, and then turned to Matt.

"Don't look at me," Matt said. "I've tried praying off and on throughout my life with amazingly dismal results. It's always made me feel a little bit like Peter O'Toole."

"Okay—I'll bite," Linh said, lowering her voice an octave. "Why is that?"

"Peter O'Toole was in a movie back in the seventies call _THE_ _RULING CLASS._ He played an eccentric—when hasn't he?—who was constantly telling everyone around him that he was God. Everyone thought he was simply insane until one of the other characters thinks to ask him one day just _why_ he thinks he's God. O'Toole's answer is a classic. He said "It's very simple. For years and years I prayed to him and nothing ever happened. Then one day I realized that I had just been talking to myself."

It was clearly a laugh line, but no one was laughing—especially Linh. She took two quick steps toward Matt. Being a little afraid for his safety at this point, I quickly cut her off at the pass. "Linh—would you mind? I think both Matt and I would feel a lot better if that prayer came from you. Seriously, we want to give Missy every chance," I added with what I hoped was a winning smile. Apparently it wasn't, as she shot me another scorching look.

Defeated and deeply disappointed with us both, she turned away, and crossing her arms over her chest, she closed her eyes and bowed her head and began a prayer without another word to either of us.

She spoke in a formal speech pattern, long gone out of style in most modern churches. "Dear Father in Heaven," she began. "Please hear our earnest prayer this day for and in behalf of Missy Spencer. We beseech thee dear father to guide us, to send thy spirit to be with us and show us the way that we should go to find and save the life of this innocent child, thy daughter. We pray that she will find comfort and peace and hope this day and that she will have the care and protection of thy angels to watch over her and keep her safe from harm. Nevertheless Father, all according to thy will, and not ours. These favors and blessings we ask Dear Father in the name of thy Son Jesus Christ. Amen."

Matt and I were just beginning to move when she spoke again.

"PS, Dear God," she began again. "Please help us. We don't know where to go. We don't know what to do. Please help us. Amen."

Neither Matt nor I moved this time, unsure whether she was finished or not. Finally she opened her eyes and looked at us. "It's okay to say Amen guys," she said.

"Amen," we both said in unison.

"So what do we do?" I asked her.

"I dunno," she answered. "What do you two think?"

"Isn't the purpose of the prayer?" I asked a little sarcastically. From the look on her face I made a mental note not to use sarcasm on her anymore.

"Let's walk around the building," she said. "Maybe we'll get an idea."

"And if we don't?" Matt asked.

"Then we'll walk around it again," Linh replied. "Honestly guys, it's all I got going right now. Work with me here."

"Okay—let's walk," I said.

"Okay, we're walking," Matt added. This time Linh's scorching look was directed at him.

"It's alright to _think_ a little while we walk guys. It's alright to think really good and hard too," she added for emphasis. "Try it. It might not hurt your brains too much."

Matt and I shut up and walked.

The new warehouse was large, maybe even a little bigger than the previous one. It took up the entire block, so that there were no other buildings of any kind, either business or private on the same side of the street as the warehouse. As we started our walk around the building it was difficult to not focus our attention across the street at any given point as that side had various buildings, mostly homes, some of which had activity going on around them. We had started out at the southwest corner of the building and were moving toward the northwest. All three of us were looking at the large and mostly plain side of the warehouse, trying to divine what secrets it might hold.

"Not to be a pain," Matt said, "but what the heck are we looking for?"

Linh's anger had mostly dissipated by this point. "I don't know Matt," she answered honestly. "Maybe we are just supposed to take this time to let something come to us. All I know is that I feel a strong impression that this is what we are supposed to do. Why do you think Marvin wanted to come back here so badly he risked his life to do it? Why didn't he just head for home—it was only a couple of blocks away? What was it about this building? Was it some kind of safe house for him?"

"It might have been," I ventured. "We never knew because almost all trace evidence disappeared in the fire. It would be a lot easier to make an educated guess if we were looking at the original building."

"Yeah, you're right," she responded, obviously disappointed. "Just a fool's hope, I guess. Let's go back to the car. Maybe we can think of something there."

She started to turn around but Matt stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Not so fast young lady," he said, again an odd remark as she was a little older than him. "Let's go all the way around. You get a feeling you gotta go with it. I've spent most my life running on adrenaline and hunches." I shook my head yes and we continued up the sidewalk.

Reaching the northwest corner we made the right turn and Matt and Linh stopped dead in their tracks. If they had had me on a leash they would have snapped my neck. "What?" I said.

"Turn around and look behind you on the other side of the street," Matt said.

I did as he told me. All along the north side of the building on the opposite side of the street were private homes, mostly old ones from the forties and even earlier. Only two businesses stood out. The first was a fairly new hardware. Its front window advertised a complete sixty-four piece tool set for only $29.99. Taiwan, I thought despairingly to myself. The other business was two doors up from the hardware. It was an old fashioned and smallish neighborhood bar and grill named simply and prosaically—Joe's. In front were parked an ancient and beat up black Ford pickup truck. Next to the truck were three hogs, one a low rider. The whole set up fit the neighborhood well. The front door was propped slightly open. From it emanated what passes for music these days.

"What?" I repeated to Matt.

"What do you hear?" he asked.

"Bad music."

"What else?" he prodded.

I looked blank. I think it's one of my best looks.

"Come on old timer," Matt prodded further. "I know Linh and I are younger than you and can probably hear a little better, but concentrate and you will probably be able to pick out the sound just under the music."

"Of more effect than my dodder-age, is all the time I spent qualifying with a pistol on the police ranges," I grinned. I listened harder, and then a smile came slowly to my face. "Pool balls. That's what I hear. The clicking of pool balls. Joe's is a pool bar."

"Yeah, and that bar is a heck of a lot older than twelve years," Matt said. "Do you think the police ever checked it out?"

"Probably not. Remember the killer was dead. Case closed."

"Care to reopen it?"

"Yes I do. Let's go."

Linh spoke up. "You two don't need me to ask a few questions in there, and it'll probably go a little smoother without an oriental female along. I'm going back to the car and work the google machine on the dashboard computer. I've got a couple angles of my own I'd like to check out—with your permission of course, Johnny."

"Permission granted," I cheerfully replied.

She turned and took a few steps back toward the way we had come. "Linh," I said, bringing her up short.

"Yeah Johnny?"

"Good work Officer Zhou. I'm starting to think you're Missy's best chance." Linh beamed at the compliment with a smile that melted me. Matt was one lucky bastard I thought, although I was sure he was way too dumb to know it yet.

"I'm not Missy's best chance," she said softly. "But the one I was just talking to is. Let's all try to remember than from now on. Good hunting Johnny. You too Matt."

"Good hunting to you too," I replied. "See you in a few."

"We are going to have to work fast. Shake and rattle the tree and see what falls out," Matt said. "No time for nice-nice."

"You're right Matt. Just follow my lead—I was rattling people before you were born. Trust me, I know what I'm doing." The twerp rolled his eyes.

With that Matt and I crossed the street and walked in the front door of Joe's Bar and Grill.

"I don't know why I have to be in the fruit cellar when Del and Blake get here," Nora protested. "A lot of good I'm going to do anyone down there."

"Maybe a whole lot more than you know. If our meeting goes south, it's going to be just me and Del against Blake, and I'm not exactly one hundred percent yet, or even ten percent for that matter. You have an extension down there, plus my old cell phone. You can call for backup."

"Why not have a few more officers hidden here when he arrives?"

"Because we don't know just yet how far all this dirt goes. We can't trust anyone except Johnny, Linh and Matt, and they're a few hundred miles away."

"When are you going to call Johnny?"

"Before Del gets here, don't worry about that Nora."

"I don't know brother. I got a bad feeling about this one."

"Two words Nora. Missy Spencer. Blake can tell us where she is."

"Okay, okay. I'll do as you say."

"Thanks," Carter responded. "Nora—I don't tell you often enough, but you're the best."

"You're right Howard. . . You don't tell me enough," Nora said, smiling and walking away.

The rotten smell of stale beer and unwashed bikers assailed our noses as we walked through the door. At least the canned music had stopped. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust as we entered the darker interior from the sunlit sidewalk. When I could finally make out figures, I could see six sets of eyes on us—one set from a thin -faced old man in the back corner of the bar room. He looked like he had been making love to his tonic and gin for quite a while, as his head sagged slightly toward the table. Three more were attached to Larry, Curly and Moe, the three fat bubbas that belonged to the bikes out front. They sat on and sagged over their barstools. None of them looked like they were waiting for Sunday school class to start. Another leather and bandana guy was at the table, shooting pool with himself and obligingly making the balls click. He took a look at us and walked out the back door. I usually have that effect on people so I thought nothing of it. I wish I had noticed that he took the pool cue with him.

The last was the bartender, a tall skinny dude probably fifty or so that looked like he had a PHD in moron philosophy and had come with the liquor license. He wore a surly look to go along with his dirty shirt and it was plain that he didn't particularly like strangers—especially well dressed ones. He was clearly a blue-collar kind of guy, a sort of Tom Waits on a bad hair day lookalike. He had to be the owner of the place—no one would ever have hired the clown. He ignored us for about half a minute after we sat down at the bar, which was about twenty-five seconds too long for Matt.

"Hey barkeep. How 'bout a little service over here?" Matt said.

The bartender shot us a dirty look as he slowly made his way over.

"What you having?" Einstein sniffed as he reached us.

"Diet Coke," I said, remembering my promise to Howard. "On the rocks."

Ugly mug openly sneered at us. "And your boyfriend here?"

I winced. "Oh, my boyfriend can speak for himself," I said.

Matt conjured up his best lisp. "I'd like to see the wine list big boy," he replied while weakly waving his left hand in the air. "And try not to drag your knuckles on the floor bringing it over here," he added with a smile and a wink for extra effect. I was beginning to get the feeling that we probably weren't off to the world's best start.

Three heads of the bikers instantly turned our way.

"Get out NOW," the bartender said. "While you can still walk."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, holding up my hand. "Please forgive me and my friend here. I can see we've upset you and are off to a bad start. Let's begin again, shall we pretty please? Are you Joe?"

"Yeah, I'm Joe."

"Well Joe old buddy," Matt chimed in, his lisp entirely disappearing—"suppose you answer a few questions for us and we'll do you a favor in return. What do you say to that Joe old buddy?" His words were clipped—not a good indication of a jolly mood.

"And just what are you and your friend here going to do for me, pretty boy? Give me and my pals blowjobs?"

I winced again.

Matt flashed his most wicked smile, nearly every tooth in his mouth visible, obviously enjoying the way this exchange was going. There's an old saying about people that smile with their teeth showing, and I was seeing now that it was true. This was the Matt I had seen at the watch shop, as in brutal—the one that had chewed me up and spit me out, and then licked his own chops to clean my blood off his face.

"Maybe we'll let you keep those three remaining teeth in your mouth Joe, where they can happily fall out all of their own accord in the next six months or so. If not, I'm going to hand them to you in about the next two minutes."

"What he f--," Joe stammered, stepping back a little and beginning to reach under the bar. The three goombas at the other end of the bar began to slide off their stools at the same time.

"Stop moving your hands and shut your face," Matt said to Joe, his eyes never blinking and boring straight into the barkeep. "I don't like four letter words either so watch your language."

Joe's hand continued to slide out of sight.

"I said stop moving your hand," As Matt said it, he brushed back his sport coat and exposed the black handle of the Sig Sauer pistol tucked in his waistband. "Or I'll stop you," he added with remarkable quiet and calm.

Joe's hand stopped moving, his eyes as big as saucers, and the three advancing thugs froze.

This was not the same Matt as from five minutes ago. I made a mental note to reread _DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE_. I needed some of whatever it was that Matt was taking. Thinking it was about time to jump in, I calmly mustered my best winning smile and said, "Sorry Joe, I guess I forgot to mention that my boyfriend here forgot to take his meds this morning. He can be _so_ peevish when that happens. So pal, if you would like to avoid a huge cleanup today on whatever the hell isle this is, I suggest you just stand there with both of your hands in plain sight and answer a few simple questions. Think you can do that Joe old pal?"

"Who the f--," Joe caught himself and stopped short, watching Matt's waistband carefully. He started again. "Who are you?"

"No need for you to know that Joe," Matt said. What you _do_ need to know is this. We are under a heck of a time constraint. As in we are _out_ of time. We're chasing an insane lady serial killer and are trying to find and save the life of a young girl whose little finger means more than your whole worthless body. So, if I have to shoot your dumb butt dead to save her life, that's a trade I'm more than willing to make. Do I make myself perfectly clear Joe, or do I have to use smaller words?"

"Perfectly," Joe answered. "What do you want to know?"

"Tell us everything you know about Marvin Blakely and make it good," I said. "I am in full agreement with my friend's assessment of the situation and I'll follow his lead—as in I'll shoot your dumb butt too." I pulled back my own jacket to reveal the little Smith in its shoulder holster. Matt glanced at the tiny thing and rolled his eyes again a little. Disrespectful little cretin.

"I haven't heard Marvin's name in a good ten years," Joe said.

"Twelve years more like it," I said. "He died across the street July of 2001. I killed him."

"The big explosion and fire?"

"That's right Joe."

"That's where that crazy-assed serial killer was killed. You telling me that was Marvin?"

"Right again Joe. Keep talking."

"Like what?"

"Like what connection old Marvin had with this bar."

"He drank here—for years. His son too, after he got old enough. This was their hangout. They used to just live around the corner."

"What else?"

"Nothing else. Both of them disappeared after the fire."

"Any idea what happened to his son—Robert?"

"Not for sure. Someone said that they thought he had maybe gone into the service or became a cop or something like that. Old Marvin himself was a cop back east. Bounced off the force for grabbing too many tits and asses I think."

"Who else was in the family?" Matt asked.

"Just old Marv, his wife—whatever the hell her name was, and the son Robert. Everyone just called him Bob."

"No one else?"

"Not that I know of," Joe answered. "Every once in a while I'd see Bob Blakely with a younger girl. She wasn't family though, and not a girlfriend either. I'm not sure what her deal was."

"No name for her?"

Joe shoot his head lamely side to side.

From the corner of my eye I caught movement at the back of the barroom, as the old man wobbled to his feet. "Where you going partner?" I asked, raising my voice slightly.

"To take a piss and then home," the old guy replied. "I don't have a dog in this fight."

"Have a nice day," I offered, smiling.

"And to you as well," he said as he exited the back door. It slammed shut behind him. I guess he forgot that he needed to take a leak. The three bikers looked at me. "You three stay where you are. I want to keep an eye on you. Any of you Bozos know Blakely?" They shook their heads negatively like see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, or perhaps Wynken, Blynken and Nod, off in their wooden shoe. "Yeah, that's about what I thought," I said. "Any of you three assholes give a tinker's shit about a sixteen year old kid about to get chopped into small pieces by a lunatic serial killer?"

Joe looked at Matt. "Thought you didn't like four letter words," he said.

"The way he says them they're kind of growing on me," Matt replied.

Biker number three spoke up. "I care. But honest to God mister, none of us knows anything.

"What you're talking about was long before our time. We only started coming to this bar about two years ago."

"Then sit back down and finish your beer," I said.

I turned my attention back to Joe. "So that's it? Don't know much. Don't remember much. Don't want to know much. What about the pool?"

"What about it?" Joe asked.

"We know Marvin played pool. Was he a shark?"

"Naw. He wasn't that good. His old lady was the shark."

"Come again?"

"His wife. Now I remember. Ruth was her name. She was the shark. They used to call her 'ruthless'. She could pick up a bundle on a good night. There were always suckers."

Matt and I looked at each other. "Did she ever do any tricks with the eight-ball?" I asked.

"What kind of tricks?" Joe asked.

"Like threaten anyone with them?"

"How did you know that?"

"Lucky guess. What did she do?"

"Every once in a while someone would really get pissed off at her when she won too much. They would get all mouthy and threatening and Ruthie would tell them to shut it or she'd shove the eight-ball up their ass."

"Did she ever do it?"

"Just once. Didn't go up the guy's ass though. He went after her with a knife. Marv got the knife away and put the guy down hard on the floor. Ruthie takes the eight-ball off the table and stuffs it in the guy's mouth. Damned near shoved it _out_ his ass from the other direction. Had to call 911. Almost killed the guy. Guess he spent the night in the hospital. He decided after that to drink at a different bar. I don't think he ever wanted to take a chance on seeing old Ruthie again."

"She get any charges?" I asked.

"Not that I know of," Joe said. "After all, the other guy started it."

"Well Joe old buddy, I'd like to say that you did us some good, but why lie?"

Matt chimed in. "Yeah pal, it's been real and it's been fun, but it hasn't been real fun."

Joe sneered. "Same to you pal. Do me a favor will you? Next time you get thirsty, do your drinking somewhere else."

I was just starting to swivel out of the stool when the pool cue broke over my back, just below the shoulder blades. Bandana guy had returned, this time through the front door. Before I could react to him, he had swung on Matt and caught him squarely on the side of the jaw. I saw Matt go down hard and was sure he was out of commission, as the three bikers advanced and Joe pole vaulted over the bar, his brass knuckles from under the bar finally in hand. The odds were now five to two and with Matt down, getting worse. Despite our earlier threats we couldn't really pull our guns and start shooting, not at least if we were to have any hope of getting out of Joe's and reaching Missy in time. The biker goons were getting ready to do some big time ass stomping and they were clearly going to enjoy it. The first biker reached the prone form of Matt on the floor and was drawing back his leg to kick him in the head. He never made it though, as Matt came alive and sprang to his feet. He grabbed the biker's leg as he came up and tipped him back hard onto the floor. Now Matt brought his own foot down as hard as he could between the biker's legs. The biker let out an anguished cry of pain and doubled up. He was out of commission.

Joe swung on Matt barehanded and caught him on the point of his jaw, sending him to the floor again, while I had the pleasure of bringing my right knee up into Joe's stomach as he advanced on me. I would have loved to have seen the results, but I never would as the second biker smashed his fist into my forehead. I wind-milled backwards as I wondered who had dimmed the lights all of a sudden.

Matt was back on his feet again. I decided this guy's head must be made out of concrete. He round-housed on biker number three and as he connected I could see a couple of teeth fly out of the bastard's mouth. Apparently Matt packed a decent punch too. Not too bad for a pretty boy.

Shaking my head and clearing out the cobwebs, I drew back to let Joe have one. He was just getting to his feet and it would have been a good shot, but I never got to throw it. Guy number four, still behind he, had grabbed both my arms and was pinning them back. Biker dude smashed his fist into my gut about as hard as a man can and I felt all the wind go out of me as I sunk to the floor. Now two of them had grabbed Matt from behind as well and Joe was standing in front of him fitting on the knucks. In a few seconds he was going to start to work Matt over pretty good. Joe was about to give him the kind of beating that kills people, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do about _except_ start shooting. I saw no other options if I were going to save Matt's life or at least a week in the hospital. Trying to yank my gun while getting my breath back and standing was no easy task. I could feel the weakness in my legs again after the punch I had taken in the gut, but I was about to pull it off when a human cannonball shot through the front door at about the speed of sound and took out two of Matt's assailants at the same time.

Linh had arrived.

Joe looked startled and more than a little bewildered as Matt, now unrestrained, reached behind him for an unopened bottle of beer sitting on the bar and delivered a vicious tomahawk shot to Joe's forehead with it. Joe crashed to the floor like the sack of dog crap he was. The bartender was down to stay. Linh had knocked both of the fat-assed bikers that had been holding Matt completely off their feet despite the fact that either one of them outweighed her by three or four to one.

As blob number one rose to his feet Linh delivered a quick kick with her left foot directly up under his chin. He crumpled—another down to stay. Spinning quickly around she grabbed the second guy coming up behind her by the arm and literally did a somersault—but without letting go of his arm. He let out a yell I haven't heard outside of a slaughter house. We could hear the bones in his forearm splinter. He sat down hard on a chair and started barfing up his guts. Can't say I blamed him.

Matt yanked his SIG and drew down on the remaining two. When he told them to sit down, brother let me tell you, they did. The fight was over. Matt walked over to Sleeping Beauty and relieved him of the knucks, putting them in his own back pocket. Smart, I thought—a thing like that could come in mighty handy. From the looks of Joe, he wasn't going to be needing them for a while anyway.

The three of us backed out of the bar. Matt stopped for a brief bow to the last standing patrons and wished them a nice day. His good manners were returned with two single fingered salutes. Some people just got no class. Once out on the sidewalk I suggested that we make a beeline back to the car. No telling how many reinforcements might be on the way.

Back and seated in the Crown Vic, Matt and I recounted the entire episode.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't you two just going in there for information?" Linh asked.

"Yeah, and we got some too," Matt countered while rubbing his bruised knuckles. "Just not any that's going to do us much good. How'd you know we needed the bluecoats?"

"Woman's instincts. That and the fact that I know you two can't be let out in polite society together. When you didn't come back right away, I thought I better check it out. Guess it was a good thing I did or we'd be scraping your brains up off the floor right now. That tall guy meant business."

"Oh you mean Joe, the bartender," Matt said. "He's my new best friend. We were just getting acquainted with each other when you broke up the party. Trust me pretty girl, I had everything well in hand," Matt said.

"Yeah, I could see that" Linh responded dryly. "So what's next?"

I was about to open my mouth with some pearl of great wisdom when my cell phone rang. "O'Brien," I said.

"Johnny. It's Howard. Getting anywhere?"

"No—but we're getting there damned fast." I filled him in on the square dance at the bar.

"I'm awaiting visitors Johnny. Del is bringing Ron Blake up here in a couple of hours."

"Say what?"

"Yeah, I don't know either. Del must smell something fishy. He's never been one to sit around and just wait for things to just happen. He kind of likes to move them along."

"What about Peters anyway, Howard?"

"An old buddy Johnny, from a long time ago. He and I came up together back East. It was before our time on the force, so you never met him. He's a damned good one though. He's one of about four people I'd entirely trust with my life."

"Well Howard, you very well may get the chance to do just exactly that—today. Who are the other three, by the way?"

"The other three what?"

"The other three people you'd trust with your life."

"Oh. I'm talking to one on the phone right now, and the other two are there with you."

"Thanks for the flowers Howard. I love you too."

"Knock it off Johnny—you're going to have me crying. What's your next move?"

"What I probably should have done this morning. Shag my ass back to Bothell as fast as I can. You and Del hold Blake there as long as you can. He and I are going to have a heart to heart talk, and I can pretty much assure you that within about two minutes of the start of it he is gonna be singing his lungs out about where Missy is. Personally I think we already missed our chance. I think she's probably dead right now, but I promise you Howard she'll be the last. Twelve years and about twenty bodies later, this thing ends today. Agreed?"

"Agreed Johnny. See you when you get here. Come in quiet. Del, Blake and I are going to be having finger sandwiches and cookies out on the back porch when you arrive, and I don't want our little tea party upset too much."

"You up for this Howard?"

"Yeah Johnny, I'm doing alright. Besides, we got the element of surprise going for us."

"Just make sure you and Del aren't the ones that get the surprise. Got more news for you pal. Marvin had a partner in a Missouri armored car heist. They got over half a mil that was never found. His name is Charles White. Another ex-cop. Spent a lot of years in the Missouri State pen but got out a week or two ago. Guess what? No one know where old Chuckie is, but it's a pretty damned good bet he's hunting the money—both his share, and his dead partner's half as well. Probably pretty well figures he has it coming to him and isn't about to let anyone stand in his way. My guess is he's looking for Blake to have a little tete-a-tete about where dear old papa liked to hide things. He could show up on your doorstep at any time too."

Carter let out a low whistle. "Man, why doesn't anybody ever tell me anything?"

"I'm telling you now."

"It just keeps getting better and better doesn't it Johnny?"

"Yeah Howard. It's a funny old life isn't it?"

"Yeah, sure is. Later Johnny."

"Later Howard."

I filled in Linh and Matt.

"Wow," Matt said. "Starting to look like the OK Corral at sundown, doesn't it?"

"Yup. Looks like."

Matt and Linh started to speak almost in unison. "Let's get this show on the road. We got a lot of miles to go," Linh said. I nodded my head affirmatively but hesitated—looking through the windshield toward the end of the building.

"What's up Johnny?" Linh said.

"Oh, I don't know. I was just hoping—that's all. You're right—we've got to go."

I had just started the ignition and put the squad car into gear when the old man came around the corner of the building and slowly starting walking toward us. I just as quickly turned it back off and opened the door and got out. Linh and Matt did the same. After hesitating a few moments, he crossed the short distance between us and reached the car. He looked a little pale and quite a lot shaky.

"Got a minute?" the man said—"We need to talk."

"Get in and sit down friend," I offered. "We have all the time we need to hear what you have to say."

Missy slowly reached the surface. It seemed as though she had been gone for a much longer period than in fact was the case. At first the light bulb overhead came into focus, and then other objects farther away. The stabbing pain of the assault was beginning to diminish a little now, although her groin was still on fire. She had been freezing cold when Kyle had sprayed her with the garden hose, although now for some reason she was quite warm and almost comfortable. She wondered if she might be dying. She had heard that when people froze to death they would get real warm again just before the end. Oddly though, Missy really didn't feel that she was going to die. In fact she was starting to think that she might just survive, or at least die fighting, although she would not have been able to exactly say why. She was pretty sure that she had at least a couple of cracked ribs, plus God only knew the extent of her internal injuries. What she did know for sure however was that her right hand was now free.

Raising her hand up in front of her face, she was readily able to see why. When Kyle had forced both of her hands behind and below her, he had drawn them down way too tight. Then when he had climbed on top of her and began bouncing up and down on her chest, he had simply popped one of them free. She had paid a price for that freedom however. Looking at her hand now, Missy could see that almost all of the skin from her right wrist to the knuckles of her hand had been cleanly torn off. The peeling away of her hand skin had begun slowly and the resulting blood had lubricated the handcuff enough to let her hand pop out, minus the rest of the skin of course.

Missy lowered her dripping right hand behind her again, and by holding and hanging on to the now empty right side of the handcuff, she was able to convincingly give the impression that she was still bound. Satisfied with that, Missy brought her hand up again, and gritting her teeth against the pain, took hold of the blade end of the hatchet protruding from her body and slowing began to pull it out. The agony was almost exquisite and she nearly passed out again. Missy had to stop several times to rest before she was finally able to completely free the hatchet from her vagina. Fresh blood from her body again slowly worked its way down the table to join the older and more dried crimson stains already there. Missy knew that she had lost a lot of it, and she knew exactly how weak and overmatched she was. But she also knew that this was her one and only chance, and that it was a hell of a lot better to die fighting than whimpering and begging, two things he would surely be able to make her do before the end.

Again Missy raised her right hand over her head and back down below her, hanging on to the end of the handcuff once more. This time however, the hatchet was on the floor next to it, standing handle up and resting on end on its blade—ready for instant use. She hoped when the monster returned he would not notice that the hatchet was no longer sticking out of her body, at least for a few precious seconds. In the meantime, she would try to regain some of her strength and some of her anger. She would plan, she would plot and she would pray.

And she would wait. She would wait for his return.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The old man made himself comfortable on the passenger seat of the squad car while Matt, Linh and the eight-legged, two-tailed monster stood near the front bumper to give our guest space. Although a few steps from the car, they were able to listen in easily.

He spoke with an amazingly soft and cultured voice. "Thank you and your friends for what you did to Joe and his cronies back there at the bar. I've wanted to see that for a long time now." He held out his hand and I was only too happy to shake it.

"Shame you didn't stick around for the last act. Matt really turned the lights out for Joe with a full bottle of beer right between the eyes. It was mighty pretty work. Linh here changed a guy's forearm into cord wood. I may have accidentally stepped on a toe or two. Pardon me for saying so friend, but you don't sound a lot like your typical barfly."

"I wasn't always one. I used to teach at the university—History. Not to bore you with the ignoble details of my dissolute life—I would simply refer you to the lyrics of Margaritaville.

"You should drink at a better bar."

"You're right—I should. But Joe's is close to home, and I'm a pretty good customer. Joe lets it always be happy hour for me, so it fits my budget well. My name is Thomas Latner—just Tom to my friends."

"Johnny O'Brien—just Johnny to mine."

"Nice to meet you Johnny. Cop?"

"Good to meet you too Tom. Yeah, I'm an on again off again cop from over in Bellevue. A little out of my jurisdiction, but the Spokane Chief is letting me play in his backyard. Been a patron of Joe's long?" He smiled a little at that.

"Yes—I know you're in a hurry, so I'll get right to it. I've been a patron of Joe's long enough to have some of the answers to the questions you were asking. That's why I bugged out without seeing the grand finale. He knew I had those answers as well. I came around to the front of Joe's where I could watch the door. I figured that if the two of you came out without being carried on stretchers, I would follow you and tell you what I know. I didn't know at the time that there were actually three of you. That young lady over there shot past me as I was standing on the corner like a ball of blue lightening out of hell. Do you two have a cage you keep her in at night or do you let her wander around loose?"

"Oh we let her wander," I said. "Sweet lady, but she kind of gets motivated when someone is trying to bash in her boyfriend's face." I could see Matt and Linh smile from the corner of my eye.

"Lucky guy."

"Indeed. Youth is wasted on the young, isn't it Tom?" He nodded his head in complete agreement.

"Do you know who the girl was with Bob Blakely?"

"Yeah—her name was Kylie. She used the last name of Blakely, but that wasn't the one she was born with. She wasn't Marvin's biological daughter. He always said she was adopted, but I doubt it. Knowing Marvin and that twisted bitch he called his wife, I wouldn't be surprised to find out that she was stolen. That would have been the way old Mel and Ruth rolled."

"Kylie had something wrong with her. She was mental, no doubt about that, but there was more—it was like she was a boy trapped in a girl's body. Her looks, her style of dress, her physical build and her manner, were all what one would have expected of a male her age. She could have played tackle even then and she was only a teen last time I saw her. She was a tomboy on steroids, so to speak."

"When was that?"

"About the time of the fire—is she still around?"

"Afraid so Tom. And still mental."

"She's your killer, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"I'm not surprised—not surprised at all."

"What about Robert Blakely?"

"He was probably the most normal of the family, whatever the hell passed for normal with that bunch. Quiet guy, soft spoken—always had a joke or a story or two. But there was something wrong with him too. He could turn mean in a second and had a cruel streak in him."

Tom continued. "Marvin and Bob used to set at the bar over there at Joe's and tell their hunting stories. The two of them and sometimes Kylie and Ruth as well would go after mule deer up north, past Loon Lake. It was a real family affair, and often they would invite friends to go along. It usually lasted a week and as much as two, and the guests would stay anywhere from one day to the whole two weeks sometimes. The only cost of admission was that the guest had to bring along his own food and booze and plenty more for everyone else. Needless to say there was a whole lot more drinking going on than hunting."

"I even went out there once. Only stayed two days though and went home. Everyone liked me pretty well as I brought along lots of Jack Daniels. Most of the guys were beer drinkers and most of them would show up with several cases of the stuff or maybe even a keg. The year I was there a guy came out and only brought a six pack of cheap beer with him. Marvin told him where he could put the six pack, and it wasn't in the fridge either. Marvin told him to get the hell out. The guy tells Marvin off and says he came to hunt and he damned sure was going to do it."

"Did he?"

"Yeah—for about an hour or two the next morning. He was back at the lodge pretty quick though, with three guys carrying him. He took a .30-06 slug in his left arm. Nobody ever knew where it came from. Guy damned near bled to death on the spot and ended up losing his arm from the elbow down."

"Bet Marvin carried an '06, didn't he?"

"No. As a matter of fact he didn't—Bob either. They were both macho guys, into the big magnums. Kylie carried a .30-06 though. Trouble was, so did a few of the others, but they weren't Blakelys. Sheriff put it down to a stray shot—I think different. From what I'm hearing from you now, guess that guy is pretty lucky to be alive. Most real hunters feel sick when they accidentally gut shoot a deer. The Blakelys thought it was funny. One time Bob gut shot a mule deer. He tracked it down and instead of doing the right thing and finishing it off, he just sat down on a tree stump and watched the poor thing slowly die. He even bragged about it back at the lodge. Real sport, huh? I never thought much of the man after that, cute little stories or not. Like I said, two days of that bullshit was enough for me."

"Tom, I have a hard time picturing you dressed all in red, rifle in hand, out in the snow covered woods trying to whack a deer."

Tom laughed at the thought. "No, that wasn't me. I was just bored and went for the company and the booze. I cooked some and kept the fireplace going. Guess you could say I was the camp bitch."

"Who owned the lodge?"

"Well, it wasn't Marvin. He rented it from some guy here in Spokane. Can't say I remember his name—too long ago. The guy finally died and his old lady sold the whole thing, but that was years after the warehouse fire. So Marvin was the Spokane serial killer? And you killed him Johnny?"

I shook my head yes.

"Well thank you. You did the world a favor that day."

"Yeah, even more than you know. And you're welcome." I called Linh and Matt over.

"You checked the County for Blakely properties, right?"

"Sure did. Blakely, Blake, Marvin, Robert, Ruth and just about every other combination and or spelling thereof you could think of—got nothing. If we had the address of the property, we could look up the present owner."

I looked at Tom.

"Afraid not," he said. "I'm not even too sure just how to get there. I rode up with Jimmy Watkins. He was the big hunter of the group—had a nice four by four."

"Is he still around?"

"No. Moved off years ago."

"Tom, do you think you would know the place if you were to see it again?" Linh asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure I would. It was basically just a big old log cabin. Kind of ratty. Sat on maybe an acre of land."

"Describe the location the best you remember," Linh said.

"Well, it sat right on the banks of the Little Spokane River. I remember Marvin saying that if you sat out on the porch—that is the back porch facing the river—you would be looking across the river and onto the Indian reservation. He warned us about not hunting over there. No one ever did that I know of though. It was pretty hard to get across the river anyhow. You would have had to have walked better than a mile up the river and crossed Rocky Creek Road just below the power station. No one ever did that I know of."

"What power station?"

"As I remember," Tom said. "It was the Deer Lake Power Station. The cabin sat about a mile or so downstream from the facility on the south side of the river."

"Linh, see what you can pull up on Google Earth, would you?"

"On it Johnny."

"What was the cabin like Tom?"

"Pretty good sized. Big fireplace downstairs, and three or four bedrooms. A couple more upstairs."

"A basement?"

"No, not under the cabin—but there was one under the garage."

"Come again?"

"Yeah, there was a free-standing two-car garage maybe thirty yards or so off from the cabin. Also an old unused wooden horse shed or small barn set back a little in the woods. The garage was made of concrete blocks. Under the garage was the basement. The entrance was off to the side of the garage. There was a set of maybe a dozen concrete steps going down into it. It was used as a deer processing room. There were all kinds of hooks in the ceiling and the walls for hanging carcasses. And a big old heavy wooden table right in the middle for cutting up the deer. Creepy as hell. I was only in there once, and I didn't like it a bit. Funny thing though. There weren't any windows. Marvin said it was built that way on purpose to hold in the cold in the winter. Sometimes deer would hang out there for up to a week to season before they were cut up. The windowless basement kept the temperatures very stable."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. There were all sorts of tools down there. Saws, axes, knives—you name it." Tom hesitated a moment. "That old cabin was pretty damned remote and secluded. I've just described a serial killer's wet dream, haven't I?"

"You sure have Tom—please take a look at this," Linh said.

Linh swung the dashboard computer around so he could get a good look. She had found the cabin easily on Google maps. She had the aerial view up and had zoomed in as close as possible to get both the cabin and garage in the same frame. Tom peered in closely.

"That's it," he said. "Not a doubt in the world."

I looked at Matt and Linh. "Am I chasing wild geese here guys, or did we just find Missy Spencer?"

"I don't have an address here," Linh said. "Without that I'll need to go back to the County Courthouse to get the present owner."

"No time. We may be already too late for anything but crime scene photos and chalk outlines. How long to get up there?"

"Maybe sixty to ninety minutes, depending on traffic. County Sheriff could get a chopper up there in twenty."

"That's Frank Thorton. Daly warned us about him. He might botch the whole thing and get Missy killed for sure—that is if she's still alive. Jesus guys—Carter thinks we're on our way to Bothell to meet up with him, Peters and Blake. We may finally have found the girl, but she's too far away to get to fast and she's in enemy territory as well. Suggestions?"

"Yeah—I've got one," Matt said. "But you're not going to like it."

"So what else is new?"

"I don't have to be a psychic and neither do you to know that girl is out of time. All three of us feel it in our bones. I can get there a lot faster than either you, or Thorton's chopper. Pocket watch express. You and Linh follow as quick as you can. Leave Thorton out of it."

"Not a chance Matt. You're not going out there alone. This could be a dead end, or you could be walking into another patented Kylie Blakely bloodbath. And as odd as it is to hear myself saying it, I really don't want to see your guts spread out over an acre lot."

The long ago words of James echoed in Matt's head. "Touching boss. I guess I haven't told you, but bloodbaths are what I specialize in. Don't worry—I've got this covered." He shoved his right hand into his jeans pocket while he waved bye-bye with his left.

"Get your hand out of your damned pocket," I screamed as I lunged at him. I would have made it this time too if Linh hadn't stepped in front of me."

"What the hell are you doing?" I shouted at her as I pushed her out of the way. It was too late. Matt had simply vanished.

Tom was now out of the car and staring at the spot where Matt had been—same as us. "Does he do that often?" he asked.

"Yeah, depressingly often," I said. "Tom—we've got to go. I'll call you at Joe's in a day or two and let you know what happened—okay?"

"Yeah, good. Joe should be awake by then to take the call."

"Thanks Tom. And please don't tell anyone about what you just saw."

Tom shrugged. "Like who would believe me? They'd just say it was the sauce. I'm not too sure it wasn't."

"We owe you buddy," I said.

"No Johnny—I owe you. This is the most fun I've had in years. Luck to you all." With that he shook my hand again and walked away, heading off toward his home and away from the bar. I was happy to see that.

I turned on Linh. "Why the hell did you stop me? I thought you liked Matt. You want to see him dead?" There were tears in her eyes.

"I do more than just like him. I think maybe I love him. And yes Johnny, I'd rather see him dead than him alive, and having failed that girl by five minutes. He couldn't live with that and you know it. He's doing what he was born to do—let him do it. And in case you haven't noticed Johnny—Matt McCabe is one HELL of a fine man."

Yeah Linh—I've noticed. Get in the car. I'll drive, you navigate. We'll fight on the way. When we're about three miles from the cabin we'll call Frank Daly and have him bring in Thorton and the County chopper. If this is the right place, by the time they get there we may really need them. Kylie probably has an arsenal up there. Also, give Howard a call and let him know our status, and that we're going to be late getting to him. He and Del are going to have to hold down the fort alone."

"I'm on it Johnny."

"Thanks Linh." I hesitated a few seconds, and then added—"And you're right by the way. That's one of the most annoying things about you—you usually are."

With that I put on the lights and stepped on the gas, heading up Division and out of town, toward the line of green mountains plainly visible on the northern horizon.

Showtime, I thought.

Matt walked up the long drive carefully, and gingerly made the last turn, bringing the old log cabin and free standing cinderblock garage into full view. Any doubt about this being the right location was soon dispelled as he took in the dark blue Honda Accord parked just next to the garage. Already the sun was beginning to lower in the sky, and although the sky was still quite bright, shadows were deepening in the nearby woods. Matt figured that nightfall would probably be about an hour earlier out here than back in the city. Tall and thick pine trees make a pretty good blackout curtain, he thought.

Missy would be in the garage basement—the old deer processing room, no real question about that. She might be alive or dead at this point, no way to tell for sure. Kylie could be anywhere—in the basement, the garage, the cabin, or for that matter in the woods watching. The presence of the car indicated that she was unlikely to be very far off. Matt had no doubt that now, back on her home turf, she would be in possession of at least several high powered weapons, left over from the deer hunting days. This was going to be about as dicey as it gets. Welcome to the Carson Mine, he thought with a certain amount of black humor. Sometimes the more things change—the more they stay the same.

Matt realized that there were two options before him. One—go straight for the girl. That was the direct approach. Try to get the girl out first if she were still alive, and avoid Kylie altogether if possible. Matt was pretty sure the Calvary was on the way—certainly Johnny and Linh and probably Thorton as well, in as little as the next twenty to ninety minutes. Let them deal with her. If she couldn't be sidestepped, then blow her away at first sight. This plan had merit, but it was also playing defense, and darting in and out of shadows had never been his style—especially since that day so very long ago.

Plan number two admittedly had more sex appeal. That was to find Kylie and immediately kill her just as dead as a human being could ever get to be. Or make her, as in the famous words of the munchkin coroner, not just merely dead, but really _most_ sincerely dead. Then get the girl out of the basement with no fear of interference from Ms. Whack job. A great way to end the day, except for the fact that he might very well fail and if he did, not only would he lose his life, but surely Missy as well. This was definitely a drawback, no doubt about that.

Matt would have loved to have been able to turn around and ask Johnny's opinion. It was surprising just how much he had come to like and respect the man in just a day. Surprising too, how much he was already beginning to depend on him. At their first meeting Matt was pretty sure that was not going to be the case. O'Brien had seemed such a popinjay at the time. Just a very short time later, at Joe's Bar and Grill, Matt had known with absolute, one hundred percent assurance that Johnny had his back.

And Linh. What could he say about her? He had been with many women in his life, but with few did it mean very much. With Linh he knew that would be different—for only the second time in his life. Matt did not want to be killed out here today, and Linh was the primary reason that was so. It had been a very long time since Matt had felt that way. It had been a long time too, since the road ahead seems a little brighter than the one behind. Hope for the future was a great tonic, he decided.

Quickly Matt made his decision. He would go after Kylie and take her out first. Marginally higher stakes, but a better chance of success he concluded. He was alone and would be for a while. He was surely over gunned and on foreign territory as well. He had never seen a thing here before but Kylie would know every nook and cranny like the back of her hand. No telling what advanced alarm systems she might have rigged up in her murderess lair. Perhaps she was already aware of Matt's intrusion. Perhaps he was already in the crosshairs of one of her high powered rifles. He remembered Tom's story of the one-armed hunter nearly killed in this very spot. The thought of all of it gave Matt the willies—but too late to retreat now. Too late for him, and too late for that girl inside. Deciding to search the garage area first, Matt pulled his pistol and swept off the safety.

Focusing on the garage about fifty yards ahead of him, he stepped out from behind his last covering pine and began a quick step toward his target. He never made it though, taking no more than a dozen paces before a rifle-shot rang out from the horse shed inside the tree line and just behind the garage.

Matt let out a grunt as the slug ripped into the side of his left leg, just above the knee. It had missed the bone but torn out a good sized piece of his flesh and was bleeding profusely. He fell down hard among the pine straw and leaves, clamping his left hand over the wound to try to stanch the bleeding.

With his right hand he trained his pistol in the direction of the shed, but he could see no movement. Having no target to shoot at and knowing he couldn't make it quickly to cover with his injured leg, Matt simply lay where he was and waited.

The voice of Kyle Blakely called out. "Drop your gun and roll away from it. Or the next shot goes in your head. The one after that goes in the girl."

Matt did as he was told. There was no other choice. His entire plan had been wrong—he shouldn't have jumped in alone. This was going to end badly. There was a great temptation to reach for his watch and simply get himself out and to safety, but Matt knew that would be signing Missy's death certificate. Knowing her hideout had been discovered, Kylie would have no choice but to quickly finish the girl and make a run for it. Missy's only chance lay in Matt playing for time for help to arrive. It was not a plan likely to be successful, but it was the best they had. Matt knew that he had turned out to be a very poor rescuer indeed. Under his breath he told Missy that he was sorry for letting her down, as he heard the heavy footed approach of Kyle through the leaves.

As Kyle neared the prone man he drew back his right leg to kick Matt in the head. After he was unconscious Kyle would simply cut his throat ear to ear and be done with it. No more wasted ammo and no more out of season rifle shots to attract attention. Turning at the last second toward the killer, Matt looked up into her face. At the same time Kyle's eyes played over the prostrate form of the watchmaker, noting his youth and looks—and did not deliver the death blows as he had intended. Instead, Kyle simply gazed into Matt's face for several long seconds—and then, kneeling beside his victim, asked his question—a question from a dark night twelve long years before.

"I ask you again mister—who are you and why are you following me?"

Before Matt could say a word, the big fist of Kyle smashed into his face three times, breaking both his nose and cheekbone and sending a gusher of blood down the front of his face and shirt. Badly hurt and dazed, Matt never completely lost consciousness however, and was fully aware of being bound and dragged a distance through leaves and debris and pulled down a succession of cold hard concrete steps, and into a very damp and darkened place.

Linh was just finishing her phone conversation with Frank Daly. We had barely pulled off Interstate 90 and onto Highway 2 when the westbound traffic ground to a halt. As bad luck would have it, it was a big multi car pile-up also involving an eighteen wheeler. The truck had jack-knifed and was spread out across both lanes and shoulders. We couldn't leave the pavement to get around the mess either as the area on both sides was your basic swampy quagmire. There was nothing to do but wait. The only good news was that no one was dead.

"Johnny, Daly's been on the phone with Sheriff Thorton in Spokane County. Thorton's sending a chopper and also alerting Stevens County for back-up. Depending on where we end up it could be in either place. Stevens doesn't have a helicopter though. Thorton doesn't want any help from the Spokane City Police and he wants us to completely stand down. Says his men don't need any outside help."

"Is he sending SWAT?"

"Not exactly," Linh answered. "Just two officers and the pilot. He thinks Daly's exaggerating the danger."

"Then I'll be damned if we're standing down. That idiot is going to get Matt and Missy killed right along with his own men. Care to assist me in a little car-jacking Linh?"

"Oh, why not? I'm pretty sure I'll be paroled out of women's prison on good behavior by the time I'm fifty or so."

"That's the spirit, Linh. Just follow me."

The four of us exited the cruiser and headed up the highway shoulder. I carried Chi-Chi, and Sammy padded along on foot. The old girl was getting used to Spartan rations and had pretty much stopped complaining about the infrequent snacks. Working our way around the piled-up cars and the jack-knifed truck, I was happy to see a couple of vehicles sitting on the sweet side that were pretty much undamaged. The bad news was that both of them appeared to be piles of shit. One was a beat-up old Chevy pickup and the other an equally disreputable looking VW bug. I turned to ask Linh whether she wanted to take the devil or the deep blue sea, but she had disappeared. It was starting to appear that she and Matt had a lot in common. I made my own decision and got into the truck, tossing Chi-Chi on the seat while Sammy jumped in the back. The keys were still in the ignition. There were a group of people about twenty yards off talking on cell phones and pointing fingers. I figured that was where the owner was likely to be.

I turned the key and the truck engine roared to life, making a gratifying rumble. Perhaps I was wrong about this rattle trap—she might have some guts after all. None of the faces turned to look at me. At this moment Linh reappeared, bringing both the twelve gauge shotgun and the UZI 9mil from the cruiser. I could have kissed her.

"Thought we might need these Johnny," she said.

"Good thinking. Get in fast and maybe we can get the hell out of here without needing to flash our badges. They'd work all right on the locals, but wouldn't get us very far with the County Police—and they're going to be showing up just about any time now. And by the way—if we're still alive this time tomorrow, remind me to give you another promotion and a medal."

She smiled. "Let's just try not to make it posthumously."

I love gallows humor. I put the truck in gear and we sped away kicking up a nice gravel spray. I could hear the belated shout of the truck owner, but it quickly receded in the rear. We were on our way again, but we had lost time. We had lost a lot of precious time.

The phone rang and Linh answered it, speaking for a couple of minutes before ending the call. I couldn't hear most of it over the rumble of the truck. She was no beauty, but she could really move down the road.

"Johnny—that was Carter." Linh had a funny look on her face that I couldn't read, but I was pretty sure it spelled bad news.

"What is it Linh?"

"I don't know what's going on with Carter. I know he must be in pain and he's on meds, but he wasn't making a lot of sense just now. He said for us to get our asses up there as fast as we can haul them. He said that he knows exactly what Matt will do and he needs all the help we can give him and as god-awful damned fast as we can get it to him. He said that he will explain everything later, but that Matt was killed, or I guess very nearly killed in an incident a long time ago under almost the same circumstances. He said that Matt was named Joe Chambers back then, and that it happened at some old mine in Arizona. He said it cost Matt his entire life and everyone he ever cared about including the love of his life, Cynthia Matthews. That's the old lady in the nursing home Johnny! He says he's known Matt—not Lucas—but Matt, since they were kids together and he knows that Matt will not stop, pause, hesitate, back-up or back-down until he either saves that girl's life, or dies trying. He said he can't stand to lose his friend and his father all over again. He was near to sobbing Johnny, and that's not much like the Howard Carter I know. Like I said, He's got everything all mixed up and he's not making a lot of sense. "

I thought it all over for a few seconds. "Maybe he is Linh," I said, a complete believer at last. "Maybe he really _is_ making sense."

For the first time since I had met her, I saw tears in Linh's eyes—and fear.

I stepped on the gas harder, all the way to the floor—and the old Chevy responded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Matt was brought swiftly to full consciousness by the ammonia soaked rag that was held under his nose. He was first aware that both of his hands were restrained high above his head. His left hand was handcuffed and fastened to the wall by a heavy metal hook. His right hand was also handcuffed separately and fastened to its own hook. Matt's back was against the wall although he was sitting on the floor. His blood soaked shirt and jacket had been ripped completely off him and he was bare chested. Blood from his broken nose dripped onto his chest and stomach and worked its way down his stomach and into his pubic hair. His jeans and undershorts had been pulled to his knees, exposing his genitals. Both ankles were securely tied together and to a wooden post embedded in the floor. His bleeding left leg had been wrapped in an old towel. A clip light had been rigged overhead creating a pool of brightness. Matt could just make out the outline of the top edge of his pocket watch and see a bit of its chain, still in his right hand pocket. The brass knuckles had been removed from his back pocket, and were now being worn on the fist of his captor.

Trying to play for time, Matt went for black humor. "So Blakely—are you ready to surrender?"

The hardened face of Kyle Blakely betrayed no amusement or trace of a smile.

"Listen," Matt said. "It's all over. O'Brien knows where this place is and he's on his way with the cops. Why add to your rap sheet at this point? We know who your brother is back at Bellevue and he's probably under arrest by now. Everyone knows you've had a rough life and you'll probably never stand trial for any of this. A few years of treatment and the right meds and you're back on the street again. I'll personally go to bat for you. So will Johnny.

"My brother's been arrested?"

"Most likely. Come on—Robert Ronald Blakely, Ron Blake—Not a big stretch to figure that one out."

Kyle looked genuinely perplexed. "Who's Ron Blake?"

Matt's heart began to beat rapidly in his chest. "Ron Blake isn't your brother?"

"My brother changed his name years ago to J. . ." He trailed off, the wheels in his head spinning fast. "You don't have a clue who my brother is, do you pretty boy?" Kyle kneeled down close to Matt's side.

Matt was now the one to be perplexed. "Kylie, just listen to me for a second. . ."

With no warning whatsoever and one swift and sudden motion Kyle smashed his brass knuckled fist hard three times into Matt's upper stomach. Matt could feel his sternum break under the cold metal. The intense shock and pain of the blows sent Matt reeling again into semi-consciousness. He could feel his bowels loosening and vomit rising in his throat, as his chest heaved and he struggled for breath. Once again the assault was followed by the rag under his nose. Matt regained his senses once more and was fighting hard to get his breathing even and under control when Kyle roughly spread Matt's legs as much as his jeans would allow, and standing between the legs, dropped to his right knee with all his body weight, directly onto Matt's penis and testicles. Matt's world exploded into searing hot pain and white light as he screamed and twisted in agony and passed completely out. This time the rag had no effect. It took the garden hose and cold water to bring him around.

Kyle sneered into his face as he reached down and took one of Matt's testicles in his hand. His fingers closed around it firmly and he rolled it in his hand, but did not immediately crush it as Matt expected. "Now—do I have your attention? One nod for yes, two for no. I don't advise two." Matt nodded once.

"Do not ever call me Kylie. I am not a sweet, warm and tender young woman anymore. I am a man and not a very nice one. You may call me a monster if you like and I would not disagree, although I am not sorry for anything that I have ever done. I have nothing to be sorry for. Do not ask me for my mercy, for I have none—mercy is for God—and God is not in this room. Again—who are you?

"My name is Joseph Chambers," Matt croaked out. "I'm a private investigator and I have been tracking Missy Spencer."

"Well then Mr. Chambers—you have found her." With that Kyle released Matt's testicle and motioned over his shoulder. Matt could just make out the form of the naked girl shackled to the table, under a bare light bulb, perhaps a dozen feet away. "Should you not be doing something Joe? Are you not here to rescue her? Well go on, Mr. Investigator—show me exactly how you are going to save her. Show me how you work. Got nothing, huh? Guess whoever hired you wasted a lot of their hard earned money didn't they?"

Kyle slapped him twice hard across the face with his open hand, sending a new spray of bright red blood from his nose and onto his right shoulder. Then he grabbed and squeezed Matt's face with his hand as hard as he could under his chin, bringing Matt's eyes directly into line with his own. More blood ran out of his nose and onto Kyle's hand. He did not seem to notice or care.

Kyle resumed. "I will tell you what though my friend—I am a fair man. You found her, so you get the treat of watching her die. You see, she thinks that I do not know that her right hand is free. She has extracted my hatchet from the place where I left it and has placed it near her hand in the hope that I would be foolish enough to not notice and come close to her and perhaps she could put that axe into my forehead. She has been playing possum for the past hour while I dug her grave out by the barn. But sorry sweetheart, no cigar. I am not going to go anywhere near that damned bitch. In a moment I am going to stand up and fire several rounds from your pistol, Mr. Chambers, directly into that sweet hairy little spot between her legs and if she is not killed instantly, you and I are going to have the fun of watching her very painfully bleed to death. Oh, and by the way, I thank you for the return of my gun. It was always one of my favorites and I have missed it a lot. How, by the way, is Mr. O'Brien doing? Better than Howard Carter I would think."

"Is Johnny on his way here now, Mr. Investigator? Perhaps—but I think not. I think you came here all by yourself. And all by yourself you will die. After I kill that girl I am going to turn my attention back to you. I have a pair of pruning shears over there and I am going to use them to cut off both your cock and your balls with one clean swipe, although it will be a very deliberate and agonizing slow one. Then, while you take your time bleeding to death Mr. Chambers, I am going to pack your pretty boy parts on ice for my future personal use and make my escape—just in case Mr. O'Brien _is_ on his way. I will deal with him another day. Does that sound like a plan to you? I am very sorry that we couldn't visit with each other longer. I had many interesting and enjoyable items on our agenda. Sadly I will have to leave my bag of pool balls behind un-inserted, except for the number eight, which I will place deep into your dead throat. Mr. O'Brien will know exactly where to look for it. He has had a lot of experience in that area. . . He will have a lot more."

Matt could hear the sound of Missy quietly sobbing, knowing that her plan had failed. He knew he had to do something in the next few seconds or it was going to be over for both of them. He had to get to his watch and get himself out of the basement without further injuries. He could feel himself weakening. He hated to leave Missy, but only if he escaped this lunatic this instant and put some space between himself and Kylie, and then come back hard at her, would Missy and he stand any chance of survival at all. He had to be able to somehow get his right hand free and reach into his pocket and get his hand onto his watch. The watch would only work if he were firmly holding onto it. There was no other way. Kylie was obviously fascinated by his genitals. Once again, just like long ago, Matt was going to have to play on that.

"How do you know if my cock works good or not Kyle?" Matt said, being careful to change the gender of the name. "After all, you haven't seen it in action. It's pretty small right now after you stomped on it. Does it get a lot bigger? Does it get really hard? Does it squirt a lot when I cum? If I were you I'd want to find those things out. Come on Kyle—let me live just five minutes longer. Let me jack myself off. Just free my right hand. I can't do anything to hurt you. I'm tied in two other places and you have the gun. Come on, watch me shoot a load. It won't take long. I'll give you a good show. I've been watching that hot little babe over there on the table. She's got me worked up pretty good. Come on buddy—let me have just one more good orgasm before I die."

Kyle smiled at last while he mused the suggestion. "I guess I can spare a few minutes for a good show," he said at last. "Your wish is my command Mr. Private Investigator—but with just one little teeny-tiny added wrinkle."

Matt watched with mounting horror as Kylie reached into his back pocket and withdrew a folding pocket knife. He flipped it open, exposing a razor sharp four inch black blade. Without any hesitation whatsoever Kyle plunged all four inches of the knife blade into Matt's upper chest and directly into his Shoulder joint. Savagely he twisted it both right and left while Matt screamed and thrashed in agony. This time the unrisen vomit in Matt's stomach made it all the way out of his mouth and poured down the front of his chest and as his body arched and heaved, his bladder let go, sending a stream of warm urine onto the floor. Matt's body twitched and shuddered with the shock, pain, cold and loss of blood.

Even though once more Matt hadn't passed out, Kyle shoved the ammonia under his nose anyway. Sickened by the chemical and the brutal assault, Matt heaved-up the remainder of his stomach contents onto his chest and the floor and fought desperately to again regain control of his breathing. Kyle returned with the hose and washed it all away. Matt's jeans were now soaked and sodden with water and clung tightly to his legs. That was going to make the watch more difficult to extract from the pocket.

"Now let's just get that hand of yours free, shall we?" Kyle grinned savagely as he cruelly lifted Matt's badly injured arm and freed it from the wall hook. Matt groaned with pain. "I think you will still have the ability to attend to your business with that arm and hand, but I'm pretty sure you won't be able to do me any harm with it. Oh—one more thing. I almost forgot that you are going to need some lubrication for your little jack-off show. After all, we don't want you producing any blisters on the little guy, do we? Kyle roughly twisted Matt's right hand upward, producing another spasm of pain in Matt's shoulder. Then he slowly and calmly sliced the palm of Matt's hand with his pocket knife deeply from the base of the little finger to the thumb. Matt was beyond feeling much more pain at this point and he simply watched the process as blood began to fill the palm of his hand.

At last finished with the knife, Kyle calmly said, "Now Mr. Investigator—masturbate for me."

Matt realized that Kylie's domination over him was total and complete. Even if he were able to get himself free, he was now in no physical shape to take on this monster with any hope of success whatsoever. He was no match for her, and that was a simple fact. Still he had to try. Matt took hold of his penis with his bloodied and dripping right hand and began to try to stimulate himself to erection—to try to focus and captivate the attention of Kylie solely on his reproductive organs. Matt could still see the edge of the pocket watch and chain partly hanging out of his pocket. It was too far away to go for with his left hand, even if it had been free, reaching as he would have had to do over his body. The bloodied and slippery right hand was going to have to do.

When his penis was as hard and erect as he could possibly make it under the circumstances, he intended to let his hand slip off and jam it as fast as he could into his pocket and grab the watch. With all his mental strength he focused on when and where he wanted to go. Two minutes back in time, then two minutes forward and directly into the yard in front of the cabin. There he would spend a few seconds gathering whatever strength he had left. He would then smash through the front door of the cabin with his left shoulder and quickly find the kitchen and hope that there would be at least a butcher knife or two in plain sight. If there were he would grab the biggest one and return immediately to the garage basement. He would smash in the wooden door with his good right leg and go directly after Kylie, gun or not, knife in his weak left hand. Him or her—it would be one of the two who would die here today.

Matt began to stroke his penis, willing it to grow larger and harden. Kyle's eyes were riveted exactly where Matt intended them to be. Quickly his penis was coated with crimson blood. Stubbornly his member refused to respond, actually seeming to shrink a bit in his hand. The faster and more frantically he stroked, the worse it seemed to become. For the first and only time in his entire life, Matt's manhood had betrayed him, and at the worst possible moment.

"Well old buddy," Kyle said. "It's starting to look like there isn't going to be any show here tonight, that is unless I'm the one to give it. Sorry—I would have loved to have seen you squirt. Kyle stood up and pulled the Sig pistol from his belt and turning, trained it on the helpless form of the girl lying on the table. "Say goodnight little sister," he whispered as he began to squeeze the trigger.

At that moment the sound of an approaching low flying helicopter filled the basement. Kyle pulled back the pistol and looked up at the ceiling as the chopper flew over and the sound of its whirling blades began to recede again into the distance, apparently having missed the correct house entirely. Kyle smiled at his good fortune. This police screw-up would give him at least several more minutes of time. Time to kill both the girl and the investigator and get the hell out of Dodge. He aimed the pistol at the girl again, just as he caught movement from Matt out of the corner of his eye.

Matt, realizing that it was now or never, made his move for the watch. He jammed his profusely bleeding right hand into his pocket and his nearly numb fingers were just closing around it when Kyle grabbed his wrist and twisted it savagely, breaking Matt's grip on the watch and sending it skittering across the floor about two feet away, completely out of Matt's reach. Kyle dropped Matt's hand and grabbed the bloodied watch up off the floor.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Kyle said with mirth as he held the watch up and studied its face and eerie green glow. "Is this your papa's watch? Is it special?" he mocked. "Does it mean a lot to you? Did you want to die with papa's watch in your hand boy? Would that have given you comfort? Well you little bastard, how about if you die now with the watch in _my_ hand?" Kyle squeezed the watch hard in his left hand while he trained the Sig pistol on Matt's forehead from only inches away. Once again he began to apply pressure to the trigger.

Matt realized now that he had gambled and lost everything and was about to die. With every last bit of courage and pluck that he possessed, he smiled broadly and contentedly at Kyle Blakely and said, "Go ahead freak. I'll see you in Hell in about thirty minutes. We'll finish this there."

Refusing to show any sign of weakness and close his eyes, Matt waited for the report of the pistol and the slug to smash into his forehead. He wondered for a split second what it would be like to be dead, to be able to rest at long last. Instead of the sound of the gun however, what he heard was the beginning of a terrified wail coming from Kyle's mouth as his left arm and hand holding the watch began to tremble and shake and dissolve. Kyle looked down in terror at his rapidly disappearing arm and tried to throw the watch away, but he could not loosen his fingers from around the instrument. The watch refused to let him go. Almost as quickly as his hand and arm vanished, the rest of his body followed, melting into the air, leaving a faint sucking sound and only the echo of his frightened scream behind. As had happened at the retirement center days before, Kyle had dropped his pistol once again. It lay on the floor directly next to Matt's right ankle and just out of his reach.

The quiet that filled the basement now was almost as palpable as the screaming that had preceded it. At last the voice of Missy broke the silence. "Is he gone?"

"Yeah, she's gone."

"She?"

"Yeah Missy. Kyle Blakely is actually a woman."

"You've got to be shitting me."

"That's pretty much what everybody says."

"Where did she go?"

"Kind of for a ride. Trouble is I don't know exactly how far or for how long. Do you really have an axe by your hand?"

"Yep mister—sure do."

"Think you could toss it over here to me?"

"I can't see you very well from where I am. What if I hit you?"

"Missy dear—that's just about the very least of my worries at this point. Toss away."

Moments later the hatchet arrived with a dull thunk, hitting the floor about four feet to the right of Matt and of course just out of his reach.

"How close?" Missy asked.

"I can just barely touch it. It's going to take a little work."

"Sorry."

"No need to be sorry Missy. You're doing great."

"Your name is Joe?"

"Actually it's Matthew McCabe Missy. Just Matt to you."

"Are we going to make it Matt?"

"I think we've got a fair chance if that Police Chopper ever makes it back here to where it's supposed to be. I'll do everything I can to get us out of here Missy."

"My friend Debbie's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes—I'm afraid she is. I'm sorry."

"Now don't _you_ be sorry Matt. Let's just get out of here and go get that bitch—alright?"

"Okay by me honey. Just hang on a minute."

He stretched out as far as possible and was just able to get a bloodied fingertip onto the end of the handle. Slowly he dug his finger nail into the wood and pulled, working the handle a fraction of an inch closer before it slipped away from him again. Over and over he repeated the process until at last he was able to close his hand around the entire handle and lift the hatchet off the floor. He had lost a minute or two in doing so.

Even with his mangled right hand and arm, Matt quickly chopped the ropes from off his ankles, freeing himself to be able to turn around, stand up and lift his left arm and handcuffed hand off the hook. He was free at last but swayed on his feet, nearly in clinical shock from blood loss. With his good left hand he was able to pull up his sodden undershorts and jeans and pick up the dropped Sig. He pushed it into his waistband. Matt retrieved his torn and bloody shirt and jacket from the floor and staggered to the table where Missy had been shackled for so long.

"Don't worry sweetheart, I'm not going to hurt you."

"Matt dear—at this point I would say _that_ is the least of _my_ worries."

Matt smiled a bit as he chopped her loose, pretty sure he was going to really like this spunky kid. Once free, he carefully wrapped his shirt and jacket around her tiny naked body, picking her up and holding her close to his chest with his good left arm. Matt's right arm dangled straight down at his side dripping blood, mostly useless as deep pain, numbness and swelling began to set in.

Carrying Missy, Matt made his way to the basement door. It was secured only by an interior deadbolt. He was just able to turn it with his right hand after a couple of failed attempts, as his fine motor skills were mostly gone. Finally opening the door Matt and Missy at last exited the basement chamber of horrors. Matt quickly ascended the concrete stairs, reviving a bit as the cool evening summer breeze blew against his wet and bare skin. They turned the corner around the garage just in time to see and hear the approach of the helicopter, it at last having found the right location.

At almost the same moment the still terrified scream of Kyle Blakely came to their ears, as he began to reappear in the front yard, directly in front of the cabin door, just where Matt had willed himself to be a few short minutes ago. The watch had added a wrinkle however and dropped him hard onto the ground from about six feet in the air. Kyle sprawled out flat and took a few seconds to regain his breath, take in the scene and orient himself—then throwing the cursed pocket watch away from him as hard as he could, scampered back crab-like a dozen or so feet, jumped up and ran headlong up the few steps of the cabin and through the front door still shrieking. Watching this scene from a short distance away, Matt had to grin a bit as he remembered just how disconcerting and disorientating this space-time ride could be. He had been scared nearly shitless himself the first time it had happened to him.

Matt realized that she was probably heading for whatever stash of weapons she had hidden inside and he took several running steps toward the house in a vain attempt to pull his own gun and stop her from exiting the cabin armed. It was too late and it was too much however as Matt's strength at last failed him as he passed out and plunged headlong into the dirt and debris of the front yard, and lay there unmoving. Missy crashed to the ground with him and beside him, also completely still.

The helicopter settled into a landing as the blades kicked up a small tornado of grass and pine needles and its lights played hellishly against the side of the cabin and garage. Matt and Missy lay just off to the left of the garage, almost completely in the darkness and un-noticed by the police.

In a moment the chopper powered down, just as the cabin door re-opened and Kyle Blakely emerged, .223 assault rifle at his shoulder and began firing rounds rapidly into the cockpit of the helicopter. The pilot jumped free uninjured, but the two armed Officers were hit before they were able to return fire. Both of them were taken completely out of commission, badly injured as they sank to the floor of the aircraft.

Kyle lowered his weapon, and looking upon the scene, smiled in delight at the carnage he had created and at how fast he had prevailed and gained the upper hand. He was going to be all right. He was going to make it out of here after all.

These thoughts were still running through his head as a battered old pickup truck bounced and rattled at high speed up the drive and plunged into the front yard, its headlights joining those of the helicopter and throwing crazy shadows across the yard and buildings. It stopped in a spray of gravel and dirt as Johnny O'Brien, Linh Zhou and a dog and cat baled from the doors and pickup bed. Johnny and Linh, pistols in hand plunged to the ground, rolling away from the truck and into the relative safety of the darkness.

Kyle watched the scene, fascinated and bewildered for a few seconds and not raising his rifle immediately to shoot.

Across the yard, Missy Spencer was the first to come to and begin to move. Kyle, seeing movement off to his left, noticed the pair down in the grass and in the dark. Smiling again and knowing that his get out of jail free card had just arrived, he trained his rifle on the two prostrate forms and advanced toward them while shouting to O'Brien and Linh to throw away their weapons and come out or he would kill both Missy and Matt where they lay.

It was just past dark when two men knocked on the door of Nora Davis's house in Bothell. Nora answered the door and was greeted by Del Peters and Ron Blake. Nora eyed Blake with wariness. Del was plainly able to see her expression and after coming in to the living room took Nora aside for a moment, and bending close, whispered a few words in her ear and then returned to Carter and Blake. Nora retreated to the fruit cellar, although she was beginning to think that might not be necessary.

Carter was seated by the cold fireplace in a large recliner. He had the foot rest in the up position and a long blanket covered him from the tips of his toes to about the center of his chest. Both hands were under the blanket and one of them was securely wrapped around his forty caliber pistol. It was unholstered and the safety was off. All he had to do was to either quickly pull it from under the blanket or simply shoot through it.

Blake approached Carter tentatively. "It's very good sir, to see that you're still alive."

"Thank you," Carter replied cautiously. "And I have every intention of keeping it that way."

Del strode across the room. "Simmer down Howard—this isn't your man."

"Then who is Del?"

"I don't know Howard. That is at least not yet—but I think we might just find out pretty soon."

"How so?"

"Well Blake here noticed that someone has been in the mainframe computer using your password. By the way Howard, not too cool using your cat's name. Guess we have to send you to password security 101 before you return to duty."

Carter harrumphed. " _If_ I return to duty. I was about to retire you know."

"Yeah," Del responded dryly, "tell it to someone who might believe it—I know you too well. You'll retire when you're dead. Anyway, Blake here says that whoever it was gained access late at night after the com center was closed. The guy would have to be an idiot to not know that you're still alive since he would have seen your recent use of the password as well. The only question would be where you are. Blake didn't know who to trust so he came to me."

"Who would have access to the com center that late?"

Blake spoke up. "Should be only a few of the higher ranking Officers, but to be totally honest our Department doesn't do a very good job locking the center up at night like it should be. Lots of computer entries are made late. Cops looking for jobs in other Departments, surfing the web, internet porn, you name it—so who knows?"

"You think he has my location?"

"That's why we're here," Del responded. Blake saw that your personal info was accessed, including the fact that your sister Nora is the beneficiary of your life insurance policy. It gives her address. We think he probably knows how to add two and two, and he's coming here. If our guess is correct, probably a little later on when it's good and dark. I've filled Blake in on everything on the drive up here. He's young Howard, but he's a good man and you can trust him. You, Ron and I are going to arrange a little welcoming committee for our rotten egg, whoever the hell he is."

"How do you know he's coming tonight?"

"An educated guess. According to Blake your info was only accessed last night. From what we know about Robert Blakely so far, he doesn't seem like the type of guy to sit around meditating for too long."

"Anyone else know about this?"

"Only Chief Addams," Del replied. "We ran it by him before we came up here and got his "OK". He wanted to send more troops, but we convinced him that the less the merrier in this particular case as we wanted to actually catch the guy and not just scare him off. I'm in my own car and it's parked off on the side. There shouldn't be a tip-off there. Addams was a little surprised to find out you were still in the land of the living. Guess O'Brien didn't tell him."

"Well, that's Johnny. He always likes to play things really close to the vest. What are we going to do now?"

"Just wait. If we hit two or three in the morning I guess we can say we were wrong about the timing. Until then we lay low. Where does Nora keep the coffee pot Howard?"

"You know better than that Del."

"I do," Del replied with a laugh. That's why I brought a sack full of single serving size from Starbucks. All we need is hot water."

"We've got plenty of that."

Del left the room to heat the water. Howard motioned Blake over to sit nearer him.

"It's going to be a long evening son," Carter said. "Sit down a spell. Maybe you can finally educate me on just what the hell a digital detective is."

I threw my pistol into the weeds and motioned for Linh to do the same. I couldn't think of any other course of action to take under the circumstances. Kylie had all the advantages with her high-powered rifle. Even if we had been lucky enough to have gotten a slug or two into her from our range, it was likely that she could still have lived long enough to kill both Missy and Matt. My best plan now was to try to inch toward the pickup and grab either the shotgun or the Uzi lying on the front seat.

"Walk toward me," Kylie called out. "Hands in the air—and do not make a move toward that truck."

Shit, I thought. Can't seem to cut a break with this bitch. Linh was completely unarmed now and all I had was my little Smith in its shoulder rig. I was going to have to get a lot closer in before it was likely to have much effect on her. I wondered just how close she would let us come before she dropped us in our tracks. For the very first time since this had begun a few days before, I was getting my first real good long look at Kylie Blakely. She was burly indeed and would have passed for a man anywhere with her short sandy brown hair and muscular arms. She must have spent a lot of time working out I decided, as she appeared to have just a little more muscle in her right thigh than I have in my entire body.

We continued to move forward. Kylie kept her rifle trained on Matt and Missy and had not brought it around yet to point at us. I was just beginning to see a ray of hope in this fact when she suddenly swung on us and I found myself staring down the barrel of an AR15 semi-auto. It was not a pretty sight.

We were probably thirty feet away from Kylie now and maybe forty from Matt and Missy. Close enough for me and Linh to see his half naked, savaged and blood-soaked body clearly. My heart went out to him. I wondered how much blood a person had in their body and was trying to estimate how much he might have left—both blood, _and_ time that was. Matt had voluntarily walked into a meat-grinder to save the life of a girl he didn't know and had never met. He had nearly paid with his life too. I ashamedly realized that before this moment I had never really known the meaning of the word "grace". Although I could see his stomach rise and fall with his breaths, to a medical layman such as myself at least, he certainly appeared to be near death. Missy looked little better, smeared with blood herself, but God be praised, she was alive too. Matt had pulled it off—he had brought her out. She was awake and seemed to be alert with her head fully up and watching the drama being played out directly in front of her.

"So at last we meet Mr. O'Brien," Kylie said. "This is a day I have long waited for. I know that you were not aware of my presence in that warehouse all those years ago. I watched you kill my father you know. It took me a while to grow and learn and reach the point where I could come after you—but here I am. You escaped me once before, but tonight that will not be so. Tonight I will kill you, that slope bitch standing next to you and the young man and woman lying helpless there on the ground. After that I will begin another reign of terror that will make my father's look like a Sunday school picnic. I'm going to let you watch while I kill the others first. I am saving you for last. Say hello to Howard Carter for me after you meet up with him in Hell, will you?"

"Sure—I'd be happy to, but the problem with that, dim wit," I replied, "is that Carter isn't dead. Oh, you put a couple of slugs in him alright, but he's actually doing quite well, and right about now is probably blowing your stupid-assed brother to bite sized pieces back in Bellevue."

"I don't believe you."

"I really don't give a flying rat's ass if you do or not, Ms. Creep show."

"You _do_ want to die first, don't you O'Brien?"

"I don't give a tinker's damn about the order either. I just want to see if you actually have the balls to pull that trigger on me—or if you intend to just talk me to death. Oh, but that's right, isn't it? You don't actually have any balls do you? Just a useless little flabby pecker some joke of a surgeon sewed on you so you'd maybe feel half way round to normal about yourself. Brother, that worked out well, didn't it? You were useless as a bitch and you're still totally useless as a half-man. So go ahead freakazoid—shoot me. See if you can manage to do that one thing in your life right anyhow."

Kylie's face darkened as her body tensed. My plan—such as it was—was apparently working well. While Kylie was filling me with lead, I intended to jerk the little Smith and try my best to return a round or two. It should create enough of a show I figured to keep her attention focused on me for a couple of seconds—time enough for Linh to reach her. I had seen Linh move before, and she was fast. I wouldn't have placed money on Linh over Kylie in a squared circle, but there was a lot more on the line here and she deserved her chance to live. Me—well, what the hell, my moment had come anyhow. Like I've always said, when the time comes to leave the stage, at least leave them talking about the last act. I hoped it was going to be a good one as I prepared myself to go for my gun. I could see Linh setting her right leg. She had picked up on my intentions immediately. Smart girl. I sure hoped she and the others made it.

A flicker of movement from Matt's direction stopped everyone, as all of our eyes moved toward him. He was still totally unconscious on the ground and unmoving, but seemingly from nowhere, Chi-Chi had emerged and crawled up on his chest and began licking his bloody face. Since she had not to this point displayed any particular affection for the man, I wondered if she were trying to revive him, or had simply gotten hungry again.

It was one of those moments frozen in space and time as Kylie, Linh and I silently watched this tableau. Then, the miracle occurred. Kylie's face softened, her body relaxed, the dark cloud that had been smothering her seemed to lift as an almost sweet, innocent and childlike smile settled onto her face. She lowered the AR15 and transferred it to her left hand, continuing to smile at the scene before her. Then, reaching behind her and into the small of her back she drew a pistol, one which none of us had seem up to this point. Extending her arm toward Matt and Chi-Chi, and sighting on the small creature lying on his chest—she began to squeeze the trigger—and said simply, "I hate cats."

Bet she wasn't too fond of dogs either as Sammy roared onto the scene. Linh might be fast, but he was a whole lot faster as he launched himself at Kylie's face. She tried a shot in mid-air but missed. He made it up as far as her shoulder and sank his teeth in hard as Kylie roared in anger and grabbed blindly at the enraged dog. Linh made her move and covered the space between them in what seemed only a second or two. It was too long for Sammy however as Kylie got hold of a leg and slammed him brutally onto the hard ground like a small sack of potatoes. He let out a yelp and lay still. I had jerked my Smith by this time but could not risk a shot with Linh closing in. My damned legs were having a hard time getting into gear too, same as always.

Kylie fumbled with her pistol, her shooting arm obviously injured by Sammy's teeth. She could not seem to get it straightened out in her hand, but was still trying when Linh slammed into her and knocked her back about two or three feet. Kylie never lost her footing however, and round housed on Linh but missed. Linh delivered a lovely kick right up under Kylie's chin that should have put Godzilla out, but it didn't seem to have much effect. Kylie smashed down on the top of Linh's head with her left and Linh was out like a light, crashing to the ground next to Sammy. I could see why as the brass knucks flashed on her left hand in the artificial light of the truck and helicopter.

It seemed that Kylie and I were the last two standing. I guess that was always the way it was meant to be. I had finally closed the gap between us, but of course as the fates would have it, I was now _too_ close. I tried to get a shot off from the Smith, but Kylie swung again, smashing the knucks into the side of the little revolver and knocking it completely out of my hand and several yards away.

I drew back for a punch to her face that I knew would have no effect but never got to throw it, as Kylie simply grabbed me and pulled me into her in a front on bear hug. The fingers of her big hands laced together in a death grip behind my back as she began to apply lethal pressure. I could feel my insides start to compress as my wind went bye-bye. I would have liked to have gotten off one more verbal zinger before I died, but found it impossible. The air had gone out of me and I was totally helpless like a rag doll, my face staring into hers from only inches away. Hell of a last damned sight to see I thought as my vision began to darken at the edges. The sound of Kylie Blakely's laughter filled my ears. She was clearly enjoying herself as she began to crush and squeeze the life out of me.

I can't say I ever really heard the single pistol shot that killed her. As I looked into her eyes in what I was sure would be my final moments, I was only aware that one of those eyes—her right one to be exact—had simply disappeared. It was popped completely free of its socket and onto her cheek, hanging there by a bloody thread for a grotesque moment or two before her grip on me relaxed and I fell to the ground. The bullet that ended her life must have passed by my own head a mere inch or two away. Under the circumstances I guess I couldn't complain much. Kylie teetered and swayed where she was for another moment or two and then toppled backward, hitting the ground incredibly hard and with the deadest sack of wet concrete sound I had ever heard in my life. Kylie Blakely was dead. _Really_ most sincerely dead.

I looked in the direction of Matt, sure that Chi-Chi had revived him and the shot had come from him, but he was still in the same spot and Chi-Chi was in hers, and still licking his face. Then I noticed, just a few feet to his left, the completely naked form of Missy Spencer, standing and looking at the body of Kylie. A rather large Sig pistol dangled straight down at her side in her right hand. I quickly regained my feet and walked over to her, taking the pistol from her hand and putting my coat on her. It was long enough that she was at least modestly clothed again. I expected her to cry and bury her face in my shoulder, but she didn't. She was made of better stuff than that. She simply looked up into my eyes and said, "It's over, isn't it?"

"Yeah honey," I agreed. "It's over."

Linh was coming to. So was Sammy. He wobbled a bit but looked like he was going to be okay. I put Linh in charge of Missy and went to check on Matt. Linh did not complain about the assignment, although I knew she would rather have been with him. She was first, last and always a completely professional police officer. She punched 911 into her phone to get the ambulances on their way.

I rolled Matt over onto his side to make his breathing a little easier. Seeing that he was shivering, I peeled off my own shirt and wrapped it around his bare chest. Fortunately I had a tee on underneath. I don't have that much of a chest and there were ladies present.

Matt's eyes finally opened. He was coming around. "Where's Missy?" he asked.

"She's fine Matt—she's gonna be okay. You saved her life buddy. You did it. And she saved us back. She just blew Kylie's brains out over there a few feet away. We'd all be dead right now if it weren't for her."

"Good girl," he whispered. "And what about me Johnny? Am I going to make it?"

"Damned good and straight you're going to make it partner. You are under my direct orders to not die. I'll have your ass if you do, and trust me you don't want to see that."

Matt smiled weakly. "Will do boss." He struggled with his words and although I tried to hush him, insisted on giving me the most important piece of information that I would receive all night. "Get to Bothell Johnny. It's a set-up over there. Kylie didn't have an idea in the world who Ron Blake was. He's not her brother."

"Who then?"

"Don't know. She started to say his name but stopped. It sort of sounded like a J something. Josh or James or something like that."

"Okay Matt—I think I know. Rest now pal. I cradled him in my arms like a child while we waited for the meat wagons. Fortunately the only body bag we needed so far was for Kylie.

"So what do you think of my little freak show now?" he softly asked.

I looked down at his face. Dirty, bloodied, and in the faint light, he barely looked a teen. He could easily have been my son. My eyes were filled with tears and I didn't try to hide them. I spoke slowly and clearly, so there would be no chance that he wouldn't hear or understand me.

"I didn't think there were heroes in the world anymore Matt. And then you came along, and destroyed all my beautiful cynicism." I swallowed a lump in my throat and finished. "Thank you my friend. Thank you."

He smiled a little and nodded his acknowledgement. Then he closed his eyes and rested while we waited. Linh went to check on the two officers. She returned with the uninjured pilot and reported that the deputies were holding their own and were almost certainly going to make it. She also had Matt's gold pocket watch, picked up from the yard in front of the cabin. She dangled it by the chain. The blood smeared golden case shown bright in the headlights. What do you want me to do with this Johnny?

"Put it in your pocket and hold onto it for Matt. And if I think if I were you I'd only handle it by the chain—that is unless maybe you want to get back to the coast a whole lot faster than me."

I turned on the tall skinny pilot kid standing just to our side and made a sarcastic comment to him thanking him for all the help he hadn't given us. Obviously a smart ass, he said that he was most concerned about keeping his body free of bullet holes. Try as I might, I really couldn't find much fault with that. "Thought somebody might like a ride out of here," he said.

"You know, that's not such a bad idea. That thing still work?"

"I think so," he said. "A few bullet holes in the plexi and cabin, but nothing vital that I can see. She should fly."

"How fast?"

"She's rated for a max of 150, but I've had her a little over 185 when no one was watching."

"Sweet. How long to get to Bothell. It's just north of Seattle."

"I know where it is. I went to grade school there. Dad was military. We moved around a lot."

"So?"

"Two hours. Maybe a little less if we pick up a tailwind."

"What's your name kid?"

"Bill. What's yours pops?"

I was starting to like this guy. "Johnny."

"Well Johnny, we better head out before old man Thorton gets here. He'll put a stop to it for sure."

"No he won't Bill. I'm not leaving until I load the wounded up on the ambulances."

"Well that's up to you. Not too many can handle hard-assed Thorton. Looks like I'll get to see how you do though. Here come the ambulances and Thorton now."

The flashing lights of the two ambulances and a Spokane County squad car added to the unworldly and eerie scene as they entered the yard, already lighted as it was by the chopper and old truck. They were followed by a Stevens County car as well. Thorton's pulled in close and he got out, a heavy set man of about forty. He hitched-up his pants as he exited the car.

"Where the _hell_ is O'Brien?" he roared.

"Right over here Thorton," I said softly as I stood up, turning Matt over to the paramedics. He stomped toward me.

"Who the hell do you think you are coming into my jurisdiction and disobeying my orders? I told you to stand down. Now you've gotten a couple of my men shot. I'll have your badge for this."

He never saw my right fist coming. I connected perfectly—right at the point of his chin. The sack of dog shit fell backwards and he hit the ground hard. He lay on his back shaking his head and rubbing his jaw while I reached down and relieved him of his .38 Special and two speed loaders. I thumbed back the hammer and stuck the muzzle right up against his temple, just to get his attention. His eyes grew large.

"Does he carry a back-up Bill?"

"Naw. Bastard's too cheap to buy one. Why the voters ever elected this clown I'll never know." Bill was grinning openly. Two Stevens County Officers stood just off to the side. They did not seem displeased either and made no move to intervene.

"You're fired!" Thorton thundered.

"Too late asshole," Bill replied. "I quit. You almost got us all killed here tonight. You knew you needed a lot more fire power than you sent."

"Sorry Thorton," I said. "I don't have time to argue the point with you. I'm taking your gun, your helicopter and your pilot for the rest of the night. If you're a good boy you can have them all back tomorrow, although probably not the pilot—I think he's done with you. Oh, and by the way, I'll take that jacket of yours too. It looks pretty warm and I'm in for a chilly ride cross State." Thorton got to his feet. He handed it to me and I unpinned the badge and tossed it to him. He just stood there rubbing the side of his face as the badge hit his chest and tumbled to the ground.

"That's a million dollar helicopter you're stealing," he said.

"Not anymore," Bill chimed in. "It's pretty much got the piss shot out of it—thanks to you. And he's not stealing it if I offered it to him."

Thorton glared at me. "I'll see you in the State Pen for this."

"Fine by me," I replied. "Most of my best friends have passed through it once or twice. A couple are still there, so I'll have some good company." With that I walked away and back over to Linh.

"Linh, here are my orders. You are to stay with Matt and Missy and you are not to leave them unless they are in the operating room. Keep me posted by phone. Keep that bastard Thorton away from them both too—I don't care if you have to shoot him to do it. Have the hospital put them both in the same room. I don't give a damn either about their protocol. Tell them it's police orders—for their own protection, yada, yada, yada, and any other bullshit you need to conjure up. If you leave that man or that girl's side for as much as a cup of coffee I'll bust you down so far in the Department that meter maid will seem like a big step back up. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Perfectly, Johnny. Are you going to do this in Bothell alone?"

"Who says I'm alone. I've got Bill here, Chi-Chi my good luck charm and a very small fictional character with a major league bad-assed attitude in my front side pocket. Between the four of us we'll do fine."

"Who's the character?" Linh asked.

"Why Jack McGuire of course. He's come through some mighty tough scrapes."

"You just make sure you come through this one too, okay Johnny?"

"Okay Linh. See you then."

"See you then," she repeated. . . "I love you Johnny."

"I love you too girly," I replied with a wink as I scooped up Chi-Chi, bloody whiskers and all and Bill and I walked away. I stopped by the ambulance that was transporting Matt and Missy to Sacred Heart, and made sure they knew to take Sammy too. They said that wouldn't be a problem and would drop him off at a good 24 hour pet clinic they knew along the way. The driver said he'd pick him up tomorrow and keep him at home until we were able to come for him. I thanked him and gave Matt and Missy a wave. She was sitting up on the right side and waved back. Matt was on his back and they were starting an IV on him. I saw his finger tip go up in acknowledgement of me. At least it wasn't the middle one.

Bill and I climbed into the fairly extensively shot up helicopter. Congealing blood coated the floor and I could feel its stickiness under my feet, along with the coppery smell. I sure hoped Bill knew what the hell he was talking about when he said the thing was in flying shape. Chi-Chi looked even more uncertain than me.

"Going home old girl," I said. "Going home."

In a few moments Bill had the chopper powered up and we were lifting off the ground, heading west into the night and praying for that tailwind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Bill landed the bird at the Pop Keeney Football Stadium in Bothell. The chopper was supplied with a nice set of bolt cutters which we very effectively employed in chopping the padlock off the main gate. Once out of the stadium I was also able to use Bill's slim jim to relieve an area resident of his or her Ford Escort. Not flashy—but it didn't have very far to go. Nora's place was about four or five miles north of town, down a stretch of lonely dirt road and about three hundred feet off to the side. I had been there a few times before with Howard and knew I wouldn't have any trouble finding it again. Bill took care of the hot wiring. Nice to see a well-supplied and knowledgeable kid these days. Who says there aren't any real boy scouts left anymore?

I instructed Bill to take the chopper back home—and at a much lower airspeed this time. I shook his hand and told him to get his ass over to Bellevue as fast as he could in the next few days and I would see that he got a good job flying for King County. The police can always use a smart kid and I had a few markers out at County I could pull in. He had done a nice job flying the bucket of bolts cross state and a good job keeping it all together. I knew from the look on his face a few times that our high speed ride was a little more dicey that he thought it was going to be, but still he had made it in just under two hours and my heart had only stopped once or twice—not bad for an old guy.

It was getting late and in a little burg like Bothell they generally roll up the sidewalks after dark. I drove through town and didn't even hit a red light. I stopped the car about a quarter of a mile short of Nora's and walked in, carrying Chi-Chi with my left arm and placing Thorton's .38 in the right hand jacket pocket and the two speed loaders in the left. The revolver had a four inch barrel, but even at that it disappeared into the rather deep pocket nicely. The speed loaders were mostly for show. Way too slow for the real world of gunplay, I knew this would be over in six shots or less. Daddy always said if you can't get it done with six you might as well throw the gun at your opponent and run for your life. Smart—for a guy who'd never been in a gunfight. Anyway, I wouldn't even have to draw the gun—I could shoot right through the jacket pocket— _if_ I got the chance that was. My opponent I knew, was no dummy.

Reaching the mid-way point of the driveway I could see that the house was mostly dark, with just a couple of lights showing on the bottom floor. The second floor was completely black as were the basement windows. It made the hairs on my neck stand up, and I wondered if that was how Matt felt as he had approached Kylie's lair a few hours before. There were three cars parked off to the side of the house. Nora's little white Neon and another I didn't know. Probably Del's. It was parked farther off than the others. Closest to the house was a City of Bellevue marked squad car. As I neared it I could see in the dim light that the driver's seat was empty. I could also see that the passenger's wasn't. It was plain at a glance that the man sitting there wasn't going to be standing up to say hello anytime soon. He was pretty damned dead—and probably long enough he was starting to get used to it. Two fixed, glassy and vacant eyes stared back sat me from inside the car. For once Chi-Chi's green orbs had a rival in creepiness.

I risked reaching inside and snapping on the dome light for a second to confirm what I already suspected—that the gentleman taking the long nap was none other than Mr. Charles White. From Matt's description the skinny and tall dude could be no one else. Whoever had put a bullet into the left side of his head had also been careful enough to ball up a police jacket and place it under the slowly dripping wound. Hey, no sense messing up the upholstery on a nice clean squad car. Also no sense in leaving trace evidence lying around. All of Mr. White's blood would be spread around a new and carefully staged crime scene—one that was going to be arranged inside the house. I only hoped I wasn't already too late as I mounted the steps to the front porch and knocked on the door. I've always been fond of the direct approach. Kind of like George Custer's last known words—"Well, I think we've got all the Indians surrounded now."

I had a few seconds to re-assess the wisdom of my strategy as I listened to heavy footsteps approaching the door. It opened a few inches and the face of Acting Chief Addams appeared.

"O'Brien. You got back sooner than I thought you would. Good to see you. Come on inside. Carter and Peters are in the living room."

I entered and crossed the small side room and into the lighted living room while Addams locked the door behind us. Carter was there alright, sitting in his recliner with both hands resting on the top of his lap robe. Ron Blake was seated on a coffee table next to the sofa—his hands handcuffed behind his back and a gag in his mouth. Del Peters lay on the floor, between the sofa and the fireplace. He was face down and I couldn't tell if he was living or dead. Nora was nowhere to be seen.

Carter spoke up. "Nice to see you O'Brien. You took your time getting back."

"I wouldn't have bothered," I said. "Except I promised I'd bring your cat back."

Addams walked up behind me. I could feel the muzzle of his pistol touch my back as he said, "Put the cat down O'Brien—and slowly remove that jacket you're wearing."

I lowered Chi-Chi to the floor. She waddled off toward Howard, seemingly very happy to see him. Addams reached into my jacket pocket and relieved me of the .38 as I let the jacket slip to the floor. I only had on a very bloody tee shirt underneath.

"I remember you being a little fancier dresser than that," Addams said. "Rough night?"

"You could say that," I replied. "For the record—the blood is a friends—not mine."

"I'll have to see if I can change that."

"You might. Your sister tried, but didn't get very far. She's dead Blakely."

"Well, isn't that too damned bad. You saved me the trouble. I always knew I'd have to kill her sooner or later. She was getting way too dangerous to let live much longer."

"There's an old dead couple up in Sparks, Idaho that would have agreed with you. You didn't have a real close family, did you Bob?"

"Not too much. Her especially. She was no kin of mine. Not even adopted. Dad paid a whore down on Division Street two hundred dollars for her back when I was a kid. Said he always wanted a daughter, but what he really wanted was something new to screw when she got old enough. Dad was some piece of work. He went back two days later to get his two hundred back, but the whore had spent most of it on booze and drugs. Made Dad mad. He carved her up pretty good before he killed her. She was the first one to get the eight-ball treatment I think."

"Why eight-balls?"

"Catchy trademark. Ruthie liked them. You might say she 'approved this message'. She was as big a mess as he was."

"She committed suicide?"

"Maybe. Or it could have been an 'assisted' suicide—with dear old dad doing the assisting. I never knew for sure. I was long gone by then. I left as soon as I was old enough to get a job—on a police force—just like Dad. Changed my name to John Addams."

"Two d's. Just like the comic strip family."

"Yeah—that's right. It was intentional. I tried to go straight. I met a nice girl. We married. We had a kid. For a long time it was just a normal life."

"Your wife never knew?"

"Never. She is as pure and innocent as fresh fallen snow."

"What happened?"

"Kylie happened. She found me not long after you killed Dad. She never really blackmailed me so much as simply worried me with what she could inadvertently reveal about me. That's why I bought her that old cabin out in the woods and gave her the sex change operation she always wanted. I could see that she was following in Dad's footsteps with the killing and that's when I put her up in her own little shop and set her in motion. I made her hate both you and Carter for killing her 'father'. For some reason she really cared about the old bastard that had been banging her brains out for most of her life. I guess it was the Stockholm syndrome or something like that. She even made me claim his ashes and put them in a cemetery. Like I said—she loved him."

"Why wind her up now?"

"Because of White's release. I needed a sideshow. And the buildup of hype and PR that Kylie's killing spree would create wouldn't do my new career any harm either. Simple as that."

"But you weren't really into killing—at least that much, were you," I asked.

"Not really. Not my style. I kill people that get in my way—like you O'Brien—I don't do it much for pleasure. Like the late Mr. White out there in the car. He really thought he could brace me for Dad's half million. He thought I knew where it was and he thought he could intimidate me into telling him."

"Do you know?"

"Pretty much. It's buried just about under Kylie's nose. If she'd kept digging graves out by the old horse barn much longer, she would have been bound to have found it."

"Why didn't you just go dig it up yourself?"

"Because it was safer where it was and because of White. I had to wait for him to get out of prison and I had to dispose of him—one way or the other. He wouldn't listen to reason about a financial settlement, so we went for a ride and talked it over some more. As you can see, I finally made him an offer he couldn't refuse. Now his body is going to come in very useful."

"Because he is going to kill everyone in this room and then you are going to kill him—right?"

"Bingo, O'Brien. They don't call you a detective for nothing, do they? I will end up with not only all the old robbery money, but also the book and the movie of the week deal after it's revealed that I am the brother of, and the son of two of the worst serial killers this state has ever seen. It'll be worth millions."

"And you would have killed Kylie too, wouldn't you. All in a day's work for a super cop."

"Like I said—you saved me the trouble."

"Your days as a cop would be over."

"Who cares? Suspect what they might, no one would ever be able to pin a murder on me. In most people's eyes I would be a hero. And if a lot of bozos did hate me? Again, so what? Just sells more books and movie tickets. The higher the body count that Kylie ran up, the greater my celebrity."

"And your wife and daughter?"

"She's a great lady. Gullible as hell though. By the time I finish giving her the old poor me childhood sob story she'll be ready to nominate me for sainthood. She'll like the big money too. She loves to travel and is a great dresser. She'll overlook all the troubling little details."

"Assuming you get away with it, that is."

"Yes—assuming that. But from where I'm standing right now, it's looking pretty good.

"Where'd you get the money for Kylie's house and operation?"

"Dad didn't die broke. He wasn't exactly the world's most honest cop. He salted away a couple of hundred thou, plus all the artillery Kylie's been using lately."

"And you hired Ron Blake over there simply because of his name?"

"Yes. It was close enough to mine to be a great red herring if needed. As you would have to agree—it worked amazing well. Had you and Carter chasing your tails for quite a while."

"Nice phone call you made to me at Howard's place," I said.

"Thanks. I tried to talk like Kylie as much as I could. She rarely used contractions and always had a menacing cadence to her speech—even when she was in a good mood. The note and call were designed to scare the shit out of you, even though they had the opposite effect. I didn't know you well enough at the time to realize you have an endless supply of the stuff."

"You tipped her off about the set-up at the hospital Sunday night?"

"Sure. She would have come after you immediately. Kylie wasn't one to set around on her hands for too long. She was mad as hell about the arm wound you gave her. I guess I could have let her walk in—that would have solved my problem of eventually disposing of her—but what the hell, with all the firepower just sitting there waiting for her, it would have taken all the fun out of it. Besides, I needed a little more time to get things set up for our late and unlamented Mr. White. I don't know if Kylie would have went for it anyhow. She wasn't stupid."

"Was Kylie developmentally disabled?"

"Not even slightly. She may have at times appeared to have been so, but what she was, was simply antisocial and very seriously mentally ill. If she hadn't become part of the Blakely clan she probably would have been a smart and successful young woman, normal in almost every way—except sexually of course. She was more than a little messed-up there. But she never stood a chance. Mom and Dad abused her into a monster. I just put an extra layer of frosting on the cake they had already baked."

"Did Marvin ever touch you?"

"No. Dad wasn't into boys. Good thing for him too. If he had been, I would have found a knife and slit his throat in his sleep—just as soon as I'd been old enough to hold one."

"How old was Kylie when things started to get dead?"

"Kylie starting killing when she was just a kid. Insects and frogs at first—then graduating to dogs and cats. She always particularly hated cats—probably because mom always had them around."

"I believe it," I replied. "Funny how some of those childhood things will come back to bite you on the butt sometimes."

"What?" Addams said.

"Never mind. So what's next?"

"You like to get right to the point, don't you O'Brien?"

"Why waste time," I replied. "Life is short and I need to get back home to Mercer soon. I'm pretty sure there's a new book in all this and I want to get started on it."

"Funny man. Let's see if you die laughing. Get over there with the others," he said, motioning me toward the fireplace.

"Naw. Shoot me where I am. I've walked enough for one day and I'm getting tired of talking."

Addams eyes widened a bit and he took several steps back toward a sliding glass door that let out onto a patio. The doors were closed except for the last several inches—I figured that was probably the way that Nora liked to keep them for ventilation. The vertical blinds were drawn. Addams was now facing Carter and Blake to his left and about twelve feet away. Del was still on the floor, unmoving. I was standing to Addams' right about the same distance. He held White's .45 Automatic. Blake and Del's empty pistols were lying in a small pile at the base of the sliding door. I was disheartened to see that Howard's Glock was among them. Addams had done a good job gathering up the artillery.

"By God, I'll say one thing for you anyway O'Brien. You don't scare easy."

"Naw. Had a pretty girl recently tell me she thought I really had a set. I'd hate to disappoint her now. Besides, I've always found the Good Lord looks out for complete idiots."

Addams looked toward Howard and asked where his sister was.

"Out for the evening with one of her Church sisters. She won't be back till very late. I told her I was doing fine and she needed a night off of nurse-maiding her big brother."

"You saved her life."

"The least I could do. She's a good sister."

"Okay then. Shall we get started? That is, unless you have any more questions for me O'Brien."

"Nope—I'm good."

"I've got one," Carter said, hesitating another second or two for dramatic effect. "Exactly what would you like on your tombstone pal—Addams or Blakely?" Carter grinned openly at me. I returned it to Carter.

A look of confusion and uncertainty crossed Addams face and his gun hand wavered a bit.

I dove in before he had a chance to regroup. "Kind of difficult to decide which one of us you want to shoot first, isn't it Blakely? Peters and Blake are out of the competition. Howard's stuck in his easy chair with his feet up. Not much of a threat there. That leaves me old buddy boy—doesn't it? I suggest you shoot me first, fast and often because if you don't kill me in about the next five seconds, I'm gonna come over there and cram that .45 up your ass sideways."

I sure hoped Howard had the plan I thought he did. I was all out of them—except for the one where I fall over dead. That one I wasn't too fond of.

I made a move toward Addams as he made his decision and the big .45 swung toward me. He was quicker than either Carter or I thought but jerked the trigger a little too fast, sending a slug over my left shoulder and about two inches from my ear. I swear I could feel the breeze as it passed.

He never pulled the trigger again as the entire living room seemed to explode with the blast and concussion of the big 12 gauge double barrel. Howard's lap robe lifted off his body with the force of the shot while the entire sliding door behind Addams shattered and the glass blew out, large sections cascading out onto the patio. Almost instantly the vertical blinds, sprinkled with tiny holes, swung away and crashed to the floor. Addams somehow managed to remain standing, despite the impact of dozens of tiny lead balls. He stared down at his riddled and profusely bleeding body, seemingly not believing or accepting what had just happened to him. He looked up at me again as if he blamed me for this sudden turn of events, even though I hadn't moved an additional inch. He was starting to raise his pistol again for another shot when the second blast, this one from much closer range took him. Addams entire chest cavity seemed to disappear as most of his internal organs were blown out his back. The force of the impact of so much lead at point blank range hurled his body completely through the busted frame of the sliding doors and out onto the patio. It crashed into the Webber Bar-B-Q and both it and Addams went ass-end over elbows, slamming hard onto the patio bricks. His legs gave a final spasm and twitch as he died.

Howard lowered the shotgun and leaned it against the fireplace. He rubbed his chest, complaining that the recoil had severely tested Doctor Ganesh's suturing. He had not only stood up fast, by himself, but crossed the ten or so feet to Addams in record time, and with lethal efficiency. If he was a man either ready for a retirement home or the cemetery, he gave no indication of it.

"Guess I'm one up on you in the life-saving department," he said.

"Don't say that too fast," I replied. "The night's not over and Nora hasn't seen her living room yet. I'm sure as hell glad you had something under that lap robe besides your wrinkled up old dick. Nice tip-off by the way."

"Thought you might like it. It's a line from _JACK McGUIRE AND THE BLACK VELVET BAND._ Jack's life is saved by the little old lady with a .357 under her lap robe. . . Alright, I confess it. I've read your books."

"It's okay Howard. I promise I'll never tell a soul. Or at least not _too_ many."

"Don't push it glamour boy," Howard said. "I've got a couple more shells in my pocket."

The basement door swung open. "What in the Sam Hill is going on?"

"Nora," Carter thundered. "Where in the _Sam Hill_ have you been? You were supposed to call the Police when we needed them. That was about an hour ago by the way."

"Sorry Howard. I sat down in my old rocking chair and fell asleep."

Nora walked toward the gaping hole where her sliding door used to be.

"Don't look out there Nora," Howard said. "It's a bloody mess."

"What—you don't think I've ever seen a dead body before? I'm a nurse you know." She glanced out onto the patio. "Nice shot brother. What did you use?"

"Number four duck loads."

"Looks like Addams forgot to duck," she said. "So he was your man."

"Yup. Come on Nurse. Help me with Del. He's been out a long time."

Nora and Howard worked on Peters. He had been clubbed over the head by Addams when he struggled with him for his gun. He had a nasty gash just over his right eye, but was breathing alright. Nora said it looked like he was probably going to have a concussion and he needed to get into the hospital as soon as possible. I worked on getting Ron Blake free.

"Nice to meet you Officer Blake," I said as I shook his hand. "So what do you think of police work now?"

"So much for Bellevue being a quiet little town," he said. "Is it always like this around here?"

"No—not always. You should see it on a busy week."

Del was starting to come around. Nora rigged a bandage around his head from a bath towel and got him seated on the sofa. Howard walked over to me.

"How did Addams get the drop on you Howard?"

"We were waiting for the bad guy to show up. Instead Addams drops by and offers to wait with us. We didn't know he _was_ the bad guy until too late. You know me Johnny—I'm a trusting old soul."

"Yeah—that's why you keep a 12 gauge under your lap robe right."

Howard chuckled. "How did you know Addams was Blakely? And why the hell did you just walk up and knock on the door?"

"I kept adding up twos and twos about Addams and they just wouldn't come out to four. Hiring Blake, the cute little stories—the list could go on. I didn't come in here guns blazing because—call me silly if you want—I didn't want everybody in the house to get dead, just Addams. I thought you probably had a plan Howard. You're not that damned old yet. And oh by the way, speaking of constructive criticism, why didn't you just shoot the son-of-a-bitch about half an hour ago? You _were_ sitting on a 12 gauge you know."

Howard gave me one of his pained looks. "I wanted to hear a full confession and I wanted to hear it in front of witnesses. I also wanted to find out where the money was hid—if he knew. As for a plan, I did have one Johnny. I was waiting for you to show up and create a diversion. Nice one by the way—I thought Addams was going to talk an arm off you."

"Guess we're still a team, aren't we buddy."

"Yeah Johnny. Guess we still are."

Nora spoke up. "I hate to break up this little Hallmark moment guys, but we do have an injured man here."

"Okay Nora. Well Howard—one of us is going to have to do the honors and call the Bothell Police. You or me?"

"Neither one Johnny. Not for a little while yet. Del will keep—he's a tough old bird. We all need to talk."

"About what?"

"About setting some very wrong things right again. About justice. Not the law book type, but good old fashioned Biblical Justice. The one with the capital 'J'. We are going to finish exactly what John Addams was going to do to us. Except we're going to do it to him."

"I think I'm getting your drift Howard . . . nice."

"Thought you'd like it Johnny—you never were much of a by the book kind of guy."

"No—I never was," I confessed.

Blake looked blank.

"So, you want to be a digital detective—right, son?" Howard said.

"Yes sir."

"Well—keep your eyes half closed and your mouth completely shut tonight and tomorrow morning you'll be one."

"What do I have to do?"

"Get a pair of Nora's nurses gloves and help Johnny bring in Mr. White from the car. I think it's just about time he joins the party."

"Aye aye sir," Blake responded with mock seriousness. I was starting to think I might really like this guy. Not bad for someone I was planning to kill only about twelve hours before.

"What are you going to do sir?"

"Sit down before I fall over," Carter responded, returning to his recliner.

Blake and I got to work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Okay guys—I'm starting to get a headache here. You want to run this past me one more time?

Bothell Police Chief Jim McGill stood in the middle of the living room floor, notebook in hand, and was looking more than a little perplexed. "What you're telling me, is that this dead guy over here," nodding toward the form of Charles White lying on the living room floor—"broke in here, killed that dead guy out there on the patio—with this ladies shotgun," nodding toward Nora, "after clubbing this other fellow over the head with his .45." Del waved weakly at the McGill. "But before the dead guy on the patio died, he managed to shoot the dead guy on the floor in the head with his service pistol. And just why did the dead guy on the floor do all this? Because he was looking for a half million dollars stolen by himself, and his old dead partner in crime years ago in Missouri. Oh, and by the way, he and his old dead partner were Missouri State Troopers at the time. And yes, don't let me forget, the dead guy out on the patio, your lead homicide investigator and Acting Chief of Police, is actually the son of the old dead partner in crime back in Missouri, who was also an old serial killer from years ago on the other side of the State. Is that just about what you're all telling me?"

The five of us sat around the living room looking for all the world like crows sitting on fence posts. No one was saying anything, so I figured I better speak up. "And the problem with all of that is?" I weakly offered up with my best winning smile.

"The biggest problem with this entire bucket of dog turds is," McGill continued, "that the dead guy here on the floor looks like he's been in rigor mortis for about half a day now, not the last forty five minutes! Care to explain _that_ one wise guy?"

It was Carter's turn to chip in. He stretched out his long left leg and gave White's body a firm nudge. "What rigor?" he added. It was a mistake. White's body had hardened up so much by this point that both ends of it were beginning to rise a bit off the floor, making his hip a pivot point. When Carter disturbed the body it actually began to rotate a bit on that pivot point, turning slightly in a clockwise rotation like some sort of crazy and macabre Lazy Susan. I could see Carter gritting his teeth a little, wishing he'd stayed out of it.

"Okay—that does it—I've seen enough," McGill said, snapping his report book shut. "It suddenly occurs to me that I'm standing in the middle of a whole bunch of Bellevue cops, and without any reasonable doubt whatsoever, the worst bunch of damned liars I've ever encountered in my life. I've even got the Chief of Police here. That is, if you are back from the dead now and ready to take over Carter." Carter gave McGill a smile and a thumbs up. McGill continued. "However wonky this shooting might be—and this is a _big_ however—all other bullshit aside, I'm convinced that the bad guys here are the dead ones and the good guys are the living ones, and that's really all the hell I care much about. This shooting might have happened in Bothell, but the _problem_ is Bellevue's. And I might add—you're all welcomed to it. I'll have the bodies sent down to your morgue and write my little report with a special pen I have. Instead of ink inside—it's filled with whitewash. Have a nice evening gentlemen—and the next time you throw a little getting re-acquainted party, do me a favor and have it in some other town." With that he turned and walked out the door.

"Well, I think that went well," Carter said. The rest of us just stared at him blankly, for once without any witty replies. The silence was finally broken by the sound of my cell phone ringing.

"O'Brien," I said as I took the call from Linh and walked out onto what was left of the patio. I figured Addams wouldn't much mind me sharing it with him and even if he did, he sure wasn't going to register any complaints. I was back in five minutes and gave my report to the others.

"Great news guys. Matt's out of surgery. They wouldn't even have needed to operate on him if Kylie hadn't managed to sever a couple of tendons and ligaments in his shoulder. He's going to be Okay. He'll be in the hospital for two, maybe three days and then he can go home. I'll be there to take him. He also has a broken sternum. Not much can be done about that except to wait for it to slowly heal, but he won't be running any races for a while. The leg wound was fairly minor. All in all a pretty lucky guy."

"Missy Spencer didn't need surgery. Most of her wounds and scars are not going to be those which are easily seen. She's going to need a lot of time to recover though. Her parents are coming up from Oregon to pick her up. I can absolutely assure you all that that girl will never want for anything. Matt and I will see to that. Her college education—if that's what she desires—is absolutely assured for her."

Howard spoke up. "And neither will Kelli Addams—John—that is, I mean Robert Blakely's daughter. I'll see to that. By what we have done here tonight, Addams' wife will receive all of his life insurance and a widow's pension. Addams died the Chief of Police, so that pension will be considerable. I will never promote him as a hero—I can only lie so much—but I will insist until my last day here on this earth that he died in the line of duty. His wife and daughter can make him into whatever they want to in their own minds—they deserve to. Absolutely none of this was their fault and they shouldn't have to pay for his sins, either financially or emotionally. But there will be no book deals or motion picture royalties here. This has all been way too sick—even by sick old Hollywood standards. And as far as I'm concerned, no one ever needs to know his true identity either—this is a case of the dead burying the dead. Kylie and Robert Blakely—their lips are forever sealed. So should ours be."

"Amen to that brother," Nora said.

"Amen," we all repeated, seconding the motion—and it carried.

Howard spoke up. "So what the hell are we sitting around here for? Let's get Del to the hospital—can't you see the man's in pain?"

On the drive back to Mercer Island I reflected on the events of the past several days. In many ways they were already beginning to fade somewhat and become slightly blurred around the edges. Intense happenings have a way of doing that sometimes.

Jack would be waiting for me in my study I knew—ready and anxious for me to send him on another adventure. And I would indeed—but this would not be one of them. Jack's fans would never know of this one.

I had changed a lot too in the past three days. I didn't think I'd ever be completely happy again just sitting in front of a word processor banging out another mindless crime novel, or offering free advice on ancient cold-cases to lost and hopeless supplicants. I was feeling the need to get involved—right out there at the street level. My legs would never get any better, and as much fun as it had been to have carried a badge again for a short time—I knew that was at an end. Now I knew that I was going to have to hang a shingle out—Detective and Private Eye, Johnny "Jack Ass" O'Brien—open for business again. For the first time in a long time, Johnny O'Brien could feel his juices flowing—and that was a feeling that just couldn't be denied. Sometimes it feels good to just sit out on the front porch and watch the world go by—and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes—you need to run with the big dogs.

Sometimes. . . There's just no going back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

John Howie's Steakhouse in Bellevue was dark this night, only dimly lighted by tabletop candles and soft ambient light coming from the recessed wall fixtures. It was a nice setting, as I waited for my dinner companion of the evening in the private dining room. It would have been even nicer if that companion had happened to be female, but that was not the case.

I had told the waiter to hold the dinner order and to just bring drinks at the first appearance of my guest. So when Matthew Mason McCabe finally walked in, uncharacteristically late by twenty minutes or so, the waiter wasn't far behind with Matt's libations. I had already been nursing a gin and tonic for a while.

Matt was dressed to the nines, with a dark suit, white shirt and a nice looking necktie. I hadn't ever seen him that formal before. I doubted the getup was for me. A month after the grim business in Kylie Blakely's basement torture chamber, Matt's body was quickly healing. He still walked with a cane, but gone were the arm sling and his facial bruising was mostly faded. His sutured right hand still bore a light bandage. The slightly odd new angle of his broken nose and cheekbone gave his mug an added interesting feature. The cowlick was still in evidence. Some things never change.

"What, no Linh?" I said, as Matt approached the table. My invitation was to the two of them, but I was glad he had come alone.

"Nope, not tonight," he replied, sitting down. "Where's Howard? You two have been almost joined at the hip lately."

"Yeah, we're friends again" I said. "Guess we always were. We just forgot it for a dozen years or so. Howard's been pretty busy—as has the rest of the State—closing old cold cases. Kylie's horse barn yielded up a treasure trove of evidence and thirteen bodies in various stages of decomposition—not to mention a cool half million plus dollars that was remarkably well preserved. Old Marvin certainly had his priorities straight there anyhow. Howard's back at Phantom Lake now and Nora has at last closed up the house in Bothell and put it on the market and gone to live with him."

"Are you off the hook with Spokane County and Frank Thorton?" Matt asked.

"Yeah, pretty much. Thorton wanted to pursue an assault charge against me, but it turns out that Bill the chopper pilot and the two Stevens County Deputies must have stepped on some rusty nails out there in the yard. It seems all three of them developed a hell of a case of 'lockjaw' when they were interviewed. It was Thorton's word against mine, and it appears he doesn't have a huge fan club, not even in the prosecutor's office. Suffice it to say however, that I won't be spending a lot of time in that county—at least until he is voted out."

"I was pretty much out of it at the time—but I sure wish I could have seen you feed him that knuckle sandwich," Matt said.

I chuckled a little at the memory of it. "Nice of you by the way Matt, to donate Sammy to the cause of 'friends with good relationships'. He and Chi-Chi are happily living together at the Lake as well. Whether just close pals or carrying on a clandestine intra-species love affair is not entirely known, but hey, what the heck—what happens at the lake stays at the lake—right?"

"Right you are Johnny. He was always Lucas's buddy—not so much mine. I'm pleased to see him happy and well taken care of. Amazing, isn't it?—that a dog, a cat, and a tiny girl with more courage and guts than the Jolly Green Giant, managed to pull all of our fat out of the fire that night."

"Yeah, sure is. The evil that was Kylie and Robert Blakely didn't stand a chance in the face of the grace that was Missy Spencer. Anyway, no Howard this time old buddy. Tonight is just for you and me. Tonight is finally payment of that dinner James Carter promised you so long ago, with all the stiff drinks you could hold to go along with it. I'll be paying the tab of course. The least I can do for the old boy."

Matt picked up his scotch and soda and drained about half of it in one gulp.

"Careful pal," I said. "At that rate you're going to develop a serious drinking problem. Not a good thing for a kid like you. Tough day?"

"You could say that," he replied. "We buried Cindy Matthews today."

"I'm so sorry," I said. "I didn't know."

"I know you didn't. I didn't tell you. I know you would have been there. I know you would have wanted to be there. By this was just for me, Sam, Cindy and no one else."

"She was eighty-five years old last month," he continued. "Spent the last two years of her life in a nursing home. She was a heck of a fighter right up to the end."

"Right on," I agreed. "And how old are you Matt? I'm venturing a guess it's a little more than twenty-two. Maybe a whole lot more than twenty-two."

Matt hesitated, and then downed another gulp of scotch.

"Come on Matt," I said. "Let's have it out tonight. Let just have the complete and total truth for just this once. You know you can trust me. Howard filled me in on a lot of it, but I'd like to hear the whole story from you."

"Matt looked up from his drink, his black eyes shining in the candle glow. Eyes so perfect, so sharp, so clear, so young. But also eyes that looked as if they had stared out over the edge of the world."

"I know I can trust you Johnny," he said. "It's me I'm not so sure about. I was born in 1930. I'm eighty-three years old."

The silence following that remark hung over the place. Other sounds and movements disappeared, as I stared into those incredible black shining eyes and knew that he was telling the absolute truth.

"Dear God in Heaven," I said. Then it really was you up in those mountains so many years ago. It really was you that was shot to death at that old mine. What in the dear name of everything that is holy happened to you that day?"

"I died—and I didn't die," he said. "I don't know how else exactly to explain it.

The watch that was in my hand saved me by pulling me out of there and into a later time, but it broke Matt McCabe up into pieces in the process. Some of me stayed behind there and died. Part of me rotted in that stinking mine shaft hole. Part of me was also finally buried in hallowed ground many years later. The better part of me I think—is the part that's in the ground. What's left here is pretty hollow and empty sometimes."

"How can it be that you are still the same?" I asked him.

"I can guess—but I don't really _know_ —and that's the mystery. That's why I work all day and long into the night," he sarcastically intoned, reciting the wall plaque—"trying to repair that wretched watch. You see, it was hurt that day too. The first bullet to hit me also hit the watch and tore a piece out of its edge. That part of the watch contained many of its crystals or stones. They were blown out. I went back up that mountain and looked many times. I could never find even one. All I know is that after it pulled me out of there and to safety, I never aged again in my life. Not a day. Not an hour. Not a minute. Not a second. I wanted the watch to take me back once more to that place and time, so that I could fix the terrible mistake that had happened that day. It just never would. In a weird way, I don't believe the watch wants to give me up. We are totally connected now, and have been for a long time."

"Jesus," I said softly. Then everyone you ever loved you lost as they aged out of your life and left you behind—trapped forever in your eternal youth."

"Yes—pretty much that's just exactly what happened. Girlfriends, my wife, my child, and friends all passed me by. I've buried a lot of people that should have lived to bury me. I might be eighty three Johnny, but I have the same sexual needs as a man of—well, twenty-two. I've gone through a lot of women in my life. With them a few years and then dropped so they didn't begin to suspect that there was something terribly wrong with their eternally youthful companion. I have been something of a—to use an old quaint expression from my day—cad. But I couldn't go without. I'm not a Trappist monk you know," he explained.

"You might be surprised to find out just how much those Trappist monks get," I joked somewhat lamely.

Ignoring me, Matt continued. "I went back to Cindy as soon as I was out of the hospital. I took that first slug for real before the watch pulled me out. I still have a scar on my backside, just below my belt, and a fair size piece of my pelvic bone missing. There is absolutely one thing that I do just like any other old man—I limp slightly on cold rainy days," he said ruefully.

"I had a devil of a time convincing her that it was really me and not a ghost," he said as he smiled a little at the memory of it. "After all, the watch had deposited me in the year 1970. I was still twenty-two years old, but Cindy was forty-two. Only when I repeated back to her all the pet names she had called me in her youth, did she believe it was really me, alive and whole. For all those years she had simply thought I was dead and gone. Of course—in a sense I was."

"What about the child she was carrying in 1952?" I asked.

"My son. He was born the next year. When I went back to her in '70 he was seventeen years old," Matt replied.

"What happened then?" I asked, totally wrapped up in this most improbable and fantastic story. "I married Cindy," he said. "Just like we had planned that last day at the hotel. But there were some minor differences of course. She was a middle-aged practicing veterinarian. I was a kid without a job. Most folks thought that she was my mother, and Lucas my father—and they also thought my son was my younger brother. It was what you might call—complicated. We tried for a while, but there were just too many problems, not the least of which was not only the fact of the age difference, but also that I _still_ wasn't aging any. Every day the problem we had was getting worse. Soon, we realized people would begin to take her as my grandmother. Defeated, we divorced a few years later, although we parted dear friends. We never lost that thank God. She ended up marrying a guy her own age, a very successful banker. They lived well. He died of a heart attack within a decade of their marriage, and she lived on until a few days ago. It's nice to think they might be together again. If any woman ever deserved happiness, it was her. Cindy stayed in Arizona until a few years ago when her health began to go. Lucas and I brought her to Coeur d'Alene then so that she could be close to us and Sam. One of us was with her every day."

"How did you handle people when they noticed that you never seemed to age?" I asked.

"Moved around a lot. Every few years a new state, a new town. Never came near to having a close friend again—until I met you that is."

There was a slight lump in my throat that I was having trouble swallowing, so I let the remark pass by.

"What happened to your son?" I gently asked. Matt's eyes burned fiercely in his head, and tears began to work their way to the edges. He trembled slightly and then visibly steadied himself.

"Not tonight Johnny. Not that story. Please spare me that. Let's make that a tale for another day."

"No problem," I stammered weakly. "Another day it is. Can you at least tell me his name?" I asked.

"James. James was his name. After my dear friend and the boy's godfather. James Carter was there for him in his childhood because I couldn't be. James stood in for me as a father as best he could."

" _Was_ his name?" I ventured.

"Was," he choked out.

"Did he have a son? Come on Matt—you _have_ to tell me this!"

"He had a son. You should remember—you've met him."

"Holy shit," I stammered again. "It's Sam. Sam is your grandson. . ."

Matt cut me off. "It's a story for another day, like I said. Sit back down Johnny."

My ass had come off my chair about six inches or so without my realizing it. I sat back down like he told me. This time I signaled for another drink. The food was going to have to be held for a while longer. I wondered vaguely what time the restaurant closed.

"But yet your father Lucas lived so long. How can that possibly be?" I asked.

Matt took another gulp of scotch and waved to the waiter for him to bring another. It was shaping up to be a long evening.

"Lucas was not my father. He was also not my grandfather, as you once suspected was the case. Lucas was me. We were one and the same person, but different people. I'm not sure I can explain it any better than that. We changed our names to try to make us seem even more different. We called each other father and son. We intended to change that to grandfather and grandson soon, but his death ended the need for that. We were one and the same person Johnny, only he was a normally aged version of myself. He was what I would have been now if that insane accident hadn't happened back in '52. When the watch had to act quickly and instinctively to 'rescue' me that day, it was hurt and in shock itself. Part of its own guts had been blown out onto the ground. I believe it kind of "stuttered" so to speak and created three different Matt McCabe's—probably only micro seconds apart in time. The one who died. The one that lived a normal life and aged normally, and myself, a sort of echo or a ghost—a completely separate individual, not really fitting in anywhere, sort of a temporal misfit. I think therefore, that not really being anchored and grounded in time as the rest of us are, or perhaps not quite in sync, I never aged or changed after that day. Lucas—the other me, was left to live out his days normally. Outside of that one instance he would time travel no more, basically because the watch didn't want Lucas the aging man. It wanted Matt the eternally young man—the man so to speak, whose juices never dried up.

"Lucas became a companion, a sort of lifelong guardian or sentinel for me, as you discovered when you first met him. He was there, uninjured—my doppelganger 'twin' brother, now forty years old—when I awoke in the hospital. He has been there with me nearly every day since—until his death. We may have looked the same, but our personalities were quite different, just like real siblings. He had no interest in Cindy either, nor she in him. She was in love with the ghost. Whatever it was she loved in me—Lucas just didn't have. They were no more than odd friends to each other, again—just as my brother or father would have been. The watch allows me, Matt the young man that is, to travel at will, both in space and time—they are after all the same thing—but at a cost of eternal youth and immortality, and the loss of each and every relationship I ever had or will ever make. It has never let me out of the 'bargain' it imposed on me—my life for my soul. Trust me when I tell you that as good a bargain as it might seem sometimes—it's a curse. I became the watches 'Frankenstein Monster,' alive alright, but with quite a few bolts sticking out of my neck. Oh, not the kind that a person could see—not unless one looked for a very long time.

"It was always kind of weird being around Lucas. Sort of like looking in a mirror, and sort of not like that too," Matt continued. "Conjoined twins we were—without the connective tissue. I always wondered if I would die too when old Lucas finally kicked off, but now that he has and I'm still here, I see that the watch is unwilling even now for us to part company," he finished.

"We know you're not bullet proof. Can you be killed? Could you commit suicide and just be done with it all. Not that I'm suggesting that of course," I hurriedly added.

"Sure I can be killed—I'm not a vampire you idiot," he said with a grin. "Guess I could off myself too, but that's not my style. There's an old saying—tired of living, too afraid to die—that's me I guess. What I really wanted to do was to fix the thing, correct the accident that happened that day, and get on with my life as it should have been. A life with Cindy, a bunch of kids instead of just one, middle age, graying hair, doddering old age, and finally death at a normal time. A normal life, in other words. Is that too much of an order do you think?"

"Will you live forever?" I asked.

"Barring a car accident or something like that, or someone shooting me dead again, yes I think that I will," he replied.

"And if one of those things do happen?" I pried.

"If I am killed at some point, then I believe the watch will die too. I think we will both be finally just gone. Not a bad ending if you stop and think about it."

"And if the watch dies by itself?" I asked. "Dropped off a cliff or chopped into a million pieces by Gimli's axe or perhaps pitched into the fires of Mount Doom—what then?"

"I've thought about that too," he replied. "And the answer is I don't have the faintest idea. And pretty much that's why I haven't used an axe on it before. Some days I almost could you know. Sometimes I hate it almost that much. And other times I realize that would be like killing an old friend and companion—or perhaps a lover. I guess you could say that we have a love/hate relationship," he added with a wan smile.

"Where did the watch come from?" I asked.

"Nobody knows for sure. It's very old, and very European, rather than Celtic. For all I know it may date to the days of Leonardo. I never knew my father. His name was Roan McCabe. He was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1898. He left mom and ran off when I was only a year or so old. Her name was Elizabeth Mason, and she came from lots of old southern money and didn't really need her husband for financial support. He had always been in and out of her life. I don't think she considered it a great loss when one day he simply didn't come home anymore. It had always been his way. Mother said he was a rogue. She said Roan was a handsome devil. She said he was like me in that way—except my looks hadn't robbed my soul. She always said he wasn't good for much of anything—except in bed. She'd chuckle a little at the memory of it—and then quickly change the subject. I think she really secretly loved the scoundrel, and although she would never admit it, I'm sure she missed him. She never remarried."

"The watch had been his, one of the few things of any value he left behind. I have no idea how it came to him. Probably from his father before him. Roan left Ireland in 1916 in a big hurry and he brought the watch with him. There was some sort of scandal or problem relating to the political unrest of the time, and although I never knew exactly what it was, I always thought he might have been Sinn Fein, but to tell you the truth I never wanted to find out that much. Some old bones should not be rattled. He settled in New York for a time and became a watchmaker, much like myself and again, probably like his father before him—although I don't know that for sure either. Later on he went west and settled in Oregon. It was there that he met and married my mother.

"When I was still little the watch was passed around to several different family members. Mom never felt completely comfortable having it around her. Where ever it went I guess it kept good time, but as far as I know never produced any other effects or did any tricks whatsoever. For some reason though, no one ever kept it for long before finding an excuse to give it back to mom. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that the watch never had to be wound. It just keeps going with no apparent power source—a little disconcerting. When I got to be a teenager and after puberty kicked in, and I was responsible enough to take care of things of value, mom gave it to me—some sort of tactile reminder that I had ever had a father. I'd lay in bed with it at night clutched in my hand. That's when I think it decided that it liked me. No, that's not entirely right. I think that's when it fell in love with me. I guess, at least sub-consciously, I returned the feeling. I began to go places. At first I thought they were only dreams. Later, when the same trips happened when I was awake, I decided they were only in my head. Finally I realized they were very real. Then I learned to control them—or so I thought. I became a traveler."

Matt continued. "I met James Carter when I was in my late teens. We quickly became best friends, and he was the only one to that point that I felt comfortable sharing the secret of the watch with. When he went into Law Enforcement a few years later, I volunteered to 'go back' for him and help him solve old crimes by collecting information at the scene. These were things no one else could possibly know. We solved a lot of cases between the two of us. As you might imagine, this kind of put him on a career fast track. He became the head of his agency in almost no time—quite a feat for a young guy. That's where he was on that day in '52."

"What was in it for you?" I asked.

"Helping my friend was one thing. I loved him like the brother I never had—I was an only child. Also, I enjoyed feeling useful. I enjoyed trying to save people's lives. What we just did Johnny, what you and I just accomplished, gave me that feeling again. I thought it was long gone."

I smiled thinly at that. "Have I become your new James," I asked.

He hesitated a few seconds, and then spoke honestly. It was a quality of his I admired. "No—not quite yet. Although you have certainly earned my respect, I don't love you yet. Don't know if I ever will. Until a short time ago I wasn't even sure I liked you very much Johnny. You're not my brother yet."

"Fair enough," I said softly—and I meant it.

"James thought I was dead too, for over eighteen years," Matt continued. "He never forgave himself for sending me on that trip, even after I came back. He knew what it had cost me—what I had lost. He and I returned to that mine shaft in 1971 and we retrieved my body together. Together we buried what was left of Joe Chambers in holy ground next to a Catholic church just outside Tucson. We buried my body together Johnny, a small pile of blackened bones. More than friends at that point, we were true brothers. We buried my body by the dark of night—in moon shadows. And we spoke words. We said prayers. Didn't matter of course. I still didn't age. I didn't go back in time either. The watch never relented."

"James married in 1953. Her name was Rachel. A lovely woman. Killed in a car wreck in '56. They had a son in '54. His name was Howard James Carter, your old partner and friend. Howard was sixteen when I came back. For a while we were of an age, but quickly he passed me by and grew into adulthood and then middle age. I shared my secret with him as well. One thing never changed. We always stayed friends, and we are today. He sent you to me because he knew I could help and because he knew it was the right thing to do. Other than you, Howard has never told another living soul of my existence, and even then he left it to Lucas, and then to me, to decide how much of our secret we would divulge. There is no finer man than Howard Carter, as I'm pretty sure you now know."

I nodded my complete agreement. "How many people know about you?" I asked.

"James, and Lucas, who are both gone now, Howard Carter, yourself. Linh and Sam," he responded.

"What does Linh think about all of this?" I asked. "I know the two of you care a lot for each other."

"She knows everything—and she's okay with it. She was by my side _this_ time when I awoke in the hospital—and I thank you for that Johnny. We are both serious—but we're just taking it one day at a time right now—happy just to be with each other."

"What happened to James Carter?" I asked. "Howard would never talk about it."

"I don't doubt it," Matt said. "James became increasingly despondent—what they call depression now days. Too many losses and regrets piled up together. He never got over Rachel, and I think he wanted to join her in death immediately, and would have too, except for the infant son he had. He helped raise my son. He finished raising Howard, and did a fine job of it. Then one day after Howard was a grown man, James simply left this life with a bullet through his head. He and Rachel were husband and wife again at last. The preachers all say that suicide is a sin, but I will tell you this Johnny—if there is truly a God in heaven worthy of the title, James is alright, and he and the woman he loved are together again forever."

"I believe that is true," I said weakly. "How does the watch work Matt?"

Matt picked up his story. "After Cindy and I divorced, I went nearly mad. Sick and almost insane over what I had lost, I went through a really long black spell. I learned to like these," he said, raising the glass in his hand—way too much. The booze probably would have killed me if I hadn't stopped, but it never did age me a day. Fancy that. Dead of cirrhosis, but leaving behind a very young and nice looking corpse. I decided to become a watchmaker too. To learn everything possible of the workings of watches and clocks and how to fix them. I wanted to repair that watch and have it take me back there to that place and time so that I could kill the third man. I wanted to fix things. I wanted to alter the past—turn back the hands of time—although I always knew on some level what a horrible mistake that would be."

"Did you ever come close to fixing the watch," I asked.

"Not even in the ball park," Matt replied. "For all the knowledge I gained, I still can't tell you exactly what makes the thing tick—pun fully intended by the way. Although it may be centuries old, it seems to run on the principals of an atomic clock and quantum physics, but not quite like any other I have ever seen. Most atomic clocks and watches receive a daily signal that sets the correct time within a nanosecond—in the United States that signal comes from Denver, Colorado. My watch gets its signal from somewhere else—but God only knows where. The future? Outer space? Your guess is as good as mine. It has some sort of strange light green crystal-like stones all around the inside of the rim of various sizes, all quite small. I don't know what kind of crystals they are. I don't know precisely what they do. No one that I have had look at them has ever been able to identify them either. Some have said they resemble malachite stone, but not exactly like any other they have ever seen. There are probably five missing, as close as I can tell."

Food now long forgotten, another round of drinks appeared. We were both getting more than a little tipsy by now.

Matt continued. "I repaired the watch the best I could. The watch-face was largely undamaged. I had a glassmaker replace the broken crystal as near the original as possible. The same with the goldsmith who restored the case. I watched over them both while they worked, the watch never leaving my sight. Oddly, even after all these years, I can't seem to let go of it any more than it can let go of me. It has become my own 'precious'."

Matt reached into his pants pocket and pulled the watch out, carefully laying it on the table. Very ornate and beautiful, it lay there cold and silent and sullen, giving no hint of its abilities or menace. It was what is called a "skeleton" watch, with a small portal onto the workings. Aptly named. Through the open face I could see several small parts in motion. They reminded me of the beating of a heart. Also visible was a very faint greenish glow. I wondered how many times that golden case had been soaked and smeared in human blood. I looked up at Matt and told him that I thought the damned thing looked like W. W. Jacob's Monkey's Paw. He nodded his agreement.

"I couldn't do anything about the missing stones of course. First, I didn't and still don't even know for sure what they are. I returned to the scene of the shooting many times. But of course never to the time of the shooting. I went over almost every square inch of the ground up there with a magnifying glass. I never found a thing. I'm not even sure they exist in that time and place anymore, but they could. They are very small."

He added a chilling post-script. "I'm not sure it would take me back even if all of its parts were back in place and everything inside was working just the way it was the day before the shooting in '52. I think it might just like it the way things are right now. I think it might like the fact that we are locked up together forever—for all time and eternity so to speak."

"What you are saying then," I spoke slowly to make my point very clear—is that the watch is alive."

Matt replied thoughtfully, clearly and succinctly, mincing no words. "Yes—I think it is. I think it has the ability to think and reason and act—or choose not to act—just like you and me."

"Can you control this thing?" I asked.

"To a large extent yes. The parlor trick that I performed for you on the day we met was simple. I disappeared behind the curtain for what seemed to you to be only a few seconds, and then I emerged with your life story as though I were a psychic. What actually happened was that I had traveled back to your places and times for about three weeks and gathered information on you. I travel on such trips not infrequently, but what I hadn't done in a very long time was to get actively involved in a criminal investigation. I thought your cause was a worthy one, and I guess the watch agreed. So yes, as long as it concurs with what I am doing, I can control it. When it doesn't, it seems to develop a mind of its own."

"Much like a jealous lover?" I said.

" _Exactly_ like a jealous lover," he corrected.

"Is it female rather than asexual, do you think?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation. "Without any doubt whatsoever, it is female. She prefers to reside in my right hand pocket. She prefers to dwell close to my maleness." He stared at it on the table for several long seconds. . . "My lady is a very _sexual_ pedagogue," he said slowly, and somewhat with detachment. Silence hung heavy in the air, and then he spoke again. "One more thing Johnny. You may as well know it all."

I swallowed hard, dreading a bit his going on. "Okay pal. In for a dime, in for a dollar. What is it?"

"Before that day at the Carson Mine, the watch would only let me travel within my own lifetime. That all changed that day. Johnny, I'm telling you something now that no one else will ever hear from me. Since the moment of my death that day, this watch will take me anywhere, and it will take me to _anytime_. There are no limits—no boundaries anymore. I am a true traveler now, in every sense of the word."

"Do you mean anytime in human history?" I asked incredulously.

"I mean anywhere—anytime. Forget _just_ human history."

"Dear God in Heaven man," I said.

"Dear God in Heaven," he repeated. "I have used it to travel slightly before my birth in 1930. I watched my mother in labor. I witnessed my own birth. I have met my father Roan face to face—although he never knew it. It was scary there before my own time and I didn't want to go too far. It felt somehow _dark_ , even on the brightest of days. It felt like I didn't have firm footing —like walking on ice—and was going to fall. To where or how far I didn't know and didn't care to find out. Nor have I ever gone into the future, although I'm sure it would take me there. Truth is—I'm much too afraid to. I think there be monsters there," he finished, beginning to slur his words a bit.

The waiter appeared and asked if we were ready for our food yet. He suggested that the restaurant would be closing soon. I told him to bring it on the steaks. "Some red meat to go with the pickling juices," I quipped, trying to back away somewhat from the dark shadows of Matt's life story. The waiter also set down another round of drinks. Hoisting mine I made a toast. "To James and Rachel Carter," I said. "And to Cindy Matthews and Joseph Chambers, four lovely people and tragically star-crossed lovers. God rest them all."

"Amen to that," Matt said flatly. "God rest them all." A single tear appeared on his cheek. He didn't try to hide it.

"What's next for you—traveling man?" I asked. Matt winced a little at Cindy's long-ago pet name, but he didn't rebuke me for using it.

"Back to my bench I suppose," he said. "Back to working on the watch. It seems I'm going to have a long life to devote to it."

"Sorry buddy, but that sounds dreadfully awfully damned boring to me. What you need to do is to get out of the shop more. An old guy like you needs his fresh air and sunshine. Maybe you could take daily walks, play checkers and feed the pigeons in the park right along with the other old geezers. Maybe you could drop in on the crusades for a while or hold up a bank with the Dalton gang. If you are in a slightly more ambitious mood perhaps you might want to stop off and witness the birth and death of Jesus or check out a species or two of dinosaur. Tell me—just what does a time traveler do for fun anyway?" Matt looked up sharply, taken aback slightly by my mocking. "Well," I explained, "it looks to me like you've made yourself a victim of this watch for quite a long time now. Since you seem to be so damned awfully poor at dying, and apparently not all that hot either on magical time-traveling atomic crystal watch thingy repairing, how about you start living for a change?"

His eyes narrowed to slits. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"What I mean, you dummy, is that this watch, for all the curse it might be, is also a precious gift. Sometimes a life-giving gift. You have no right to throw that gift away or to sit on it. You could use your super-powers, or more precisely the watches' super-powers for good and not evil. You do your thing and travel through time and search the past. I find clues and solve mysteries right here in the present. Sounds like a team to me, and a dream-team at that. Instead of McCabe/Carter it would be McCabe/O'Brien. Sort of like the Lone Ranger and whoever the hell the Indian was. What do you say? Who knows—as time goes by you might even come to like me a bit more."

He thought that over for a few seconds. "Well, I doubt that," he smiled. "Tonto by the way," he added.

"Whatever. Listen Matt. That watch comes from a very dark place. You know about watches. We both know about some pretty dark places. Let's work on this thing together. We might even solve some more crimes and save some more lives. We might even save our own souls. We might even finally get you back home where you belong." Now there was moisture in my own eyes as well as his.

The waiter appeared and placed our steaming steaks on the table in front of us.

"Don't know about you," he said, "but I'm damned hungry."

"Me too," I agreed, and then looked up sharply in surprise. "Why Matt McCabe—you swore!"

He grinned. "So I did. See what a corrupting influence you've had on me."

"Just one more thing before we eat."

"What that?" he asked.

I stretched out my hand across the table for a shake. "Partners?"

After half a seconds hesitation, a beaming smile split his face nearly in two—the first I'd seen on him for a while.

"And friends," he said.

And then he shook my hand.
EPILOGUE

Las Guijas Mountains

Southern Arizona

February 11, 1953

Winter had come to the mountains of Southern Arizona, bringing cold rain and low clouds to the Las Guijas range. At the entrance to the old Carson Mine, mist swirled in the wind and gathering darkness of early evening. Faint thunder rumbled in the distance. There was now no great foul odor emanating from the main shaft, as the summer heat and small desert creatures had done their work of decomposition well. But still, to a trained and experienced nose, a certain mustiness clung to the air surrounding the slaughtering ground. Such a nose belonged to the old man dressed entirely in black, standing just outside the entrance to the mine. He had seen much of death and war. Wispy strands of white hair blew back from his bare head, as he held his hat in his hand and solemnly made the sign of the cross, without venturing even so much as an inch inside the blackness of the tunnel.

Finally turning away from the sullen gravesite, the old man walked a few dozen feet and stopping near the edge of the clearing pulled a leather drawstring bag and lanyard from off his neck and opened the pouch. Slowly he cast his eyes about the area, looking for the objects he knew would not be far off. At last spotting a faint glimmer of contrasting color among the dark pebbles and mine debris, he bent and picked up five small light green malachite stones. One by one he placed them inside his leather pouch, and then pulling it tightly shut, replaced it around his neck, turned, took three steps and disappeared into the mist.

AVAILABLE NOW!

_Look for the continuation of_ THE WATCHMAKER _series_

with Book Two, Elliot Bay, available with online retailers.

Elliot Bay

THE WATCHMAKER—Book Two

She was young, she was blond, and she was beautiful—and she was dead. Crumpled in a pool of her own blood and gore, her stunning looks were gone. She wasn't very pretty anymore—but then, murder is never very pretty either.

When retired homicide detective and newly minted private-eye Johnny "Jack Ass" O'Brien gets the call to investigate this long forgotten and very cold case, he discovers an entire universe of intrigue and deception, and a far greater and more perilous puzzle than he ever bargained for—one that extends down through the decades and histories of two prominent Seattle area families.

Once more teaming up with partner and best friend, watchmaker Matt McCabe, Johnny and Matt delve into a dark, sordid and mysterious world of shadows, charades, lies and danger, and discovers more players than a sandlot baseball team—along with a most worthy, and most deadly opponent—a madman who may ultimately prove to be the end of all and everything Johnny holds dear.

Can Matt and Johnny unravel this web of crime, murder and mayhem and save innocent lives before it's too late? Join the action and fun of ELLIOT BAY: The Watchmaker—Book Two, and find out.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lee Capp was born in Detroit, Michigan in 1949, back when the Motor City was the crown jewel of the Midwest, and center of the manufacturing might of America.

Raised on motors and Motown and brought up in a tiny suburb called Walled Lake, he had a very misspent youth focused on rock and roll music, amusement parks, good friends (some of which were even girls) movies, golden age television shows and fortunately lots of really good books. Personal favorites among them were the popular anthologies of Alfred Hitchcock and Dorothy Sayers and the crime novels of Ellery Queen and Mickey Spillane.

In addition to being a life-long writer of what he calls "Unsold and un-sellable dumb stupid stuff" Capp has worked in many fields during his long career, including a short but very interesting stint as an apprentice embalmer in a Tucson, Arizona funeral home and a fish monger in Seattle, Washington. The fish selling he has said was equivalent to an advanced college degree in the study of human nature.

Johnny O'Brien is a compilation of Capp himself, who descends from Irish, Scottish and English farmers, fishermen and lumberjack immigrants, and he says, a number of other (verbally at least) bad-assed friends of his youth. Capp says that "if we all were even a tenth as tough as we thought we were, we could have ruled the World."

Lee Capp and his wife Bea, retired at last from the workaday world, now reside among the pines, ponds and streams outside Seattle, Washington, where he continues to see just how much trouble he can get Johnny O'Brien and Matt McCabe into the next time around.

Contact the author at lee.capp.967@facebook.com
