

THE BIRTHDAY CLUB

COPYRIGHT DECEMBER 2017

BY JACK PETERSEN

THEN

CC

We didn't meet until the tenth grade. That's when the new school was finished and kids from surrounding neighborhoods were transferred in. We all lived within a few blocks of each other, but the school boundary lines were really weird back then, and none of us had gone to the same school before, or knew one another. I met up with Billy first. We were in the same homeroom and sat next to each other because our names were numbers 6 and 7 on the list.

Angelina and Kurt met the first day in the same way, but in a different homeroom.

All four of us wound up in the same English class in third period, just before lunch, and were lined up like ducks in a row across the second row of seats. Numbers 6, 7, 8, and 9 on the list of names. Billy was 9 and I was 6, so the other two got included by some kind of absorption and that first day we all went to the cafeteria together.

Since that September, Billy, Angelina, Kurt and I were constant companions all through high school. That happened because at lunch that day Kurt mentioned his birthday was the next Monday. We three looked at him with the same surprised expression.

Billy said, "Huh? That's my birthday, too."

Angelina was next to say hers fell on the same day. Then all three of them looked at me and I told them "Ditto."

So right then and there we formed the Birthday Club, and every September 14th we planned to celebrate together.

Each one of us had friends and acquaintances from before, but they sort of fell away over the ensuing months, leaving the four of us to ourselves. It was like we belonged together and there wasn't room for anyone else. It might have been different if any of us had siblings who would demand at least some of our spare time. None of us did though, and that too was kind of weird.

After school that first day, backpacks full of books and already saddled with tons of homework, Angelina asked us to stop by her place to meet her mother.

Mrs. Kelly worked two jobs at the time and that was a rare afternoon off for her. Angelina wanted to get the 'I've got new friends thing' done right away because who knew when there would be another good chance like that.

Mrs. Kelly was a bit distracted at first what with dinner in the oven and a pile of unopened bills on the counter top, but she made time for us and it wasn't long before she had each of our life stories down pat. Fact is she became like a second Mother to each of us over time. Since Angelina's father had been killed in an accident three years before, it may have been that she needed some extra company at times. She was sure surprised when she found out that we all had the same birthday, and laughed a bit when we told her that we had formed the Birthday Club. Then a minute later she was planning our combined birthday party, and promised to take the day off from both jobs to make it work. We probably would have hung out there until dark, but Mrs. Kelly told us to beat it on home and get our homework done.

Billy, Kurt and I split up at the bottom of Mrs. Kelly's entryway steps with a promise to meet up again the next day.

I got home in less than fifteen minutes, since our house was only two blocks away. Mom and Dad weren't home from work yet so I fed the dog and emptied the dishwasher. Assigned tasks completed, I went to my room to try and figure out what the three angles of a triangle had to do with each other.

Mom and Dad arrived within ten minutes of each other and suddenly the apartment was filled with noise. Dog-yapping, TV-blaring, pots- and pans-rattling noise that signaled the beginning of a night at home for the Clark family. I didn't get to tell Mom and Dad about the Birthday Club until just before bedtime, and they both just nodded and wished me a good night. Not so exciting from their perspective I supposed.

The next day, after classes, we four met up outside the Timeout Arcade and spent what would become a traditional ten minutes to share news and ideas before heading home. I don't remember who brought it up, maybe Angelina, but we got to talking about heroes.

Hers was Jane Goodall who, she said, proved that women could do anything and usually better than men.

Billy's was some guy named Humboldt because he roamed the world and figured out complicated stuff way ahead of anyone else.

The rest of us just said "Who?"

Kurt said the other two had no idea about what a hero ought to be, and his, Alvin York, was a real-life Rambo who could do it all in an all-out fight.

Up until then, my sort of hero had been my uncle Carl who had spent twenty years fighting fires and who had given me my first talk about morals and ethics. Uncle Carl wasn't much of a match for the people the other three looked up to, even though I had no idea about what Humboldt might have done. So I made a quick revision to my history and said Neil Armstrong was my number one look-up-to guy. I felt like a traitor immediately and didn't have much else to say that afternoon.

Not that the other three noticed my silence. They all dug in about their choices and a pretty good debate ensued. I could see as the arguments flowed that Angelina and Billy had sort of a simpatico relationship building with their devotion to reason and science gradually beating down Kurt's certainty that we would not exist as a people if wars had not been won.

By the time we had to split up and go our separate ways the discussion was more about favorite flavors of soda and what made for a good snack. That was the first time our patience with each other and our separate belief systems was tested. I went to sleep that night thinking that I had a pretty cool bunch of friends.

Tenth grade plodded on through the Winter and into Spring. Kurt bragged in January that he had to shave now or he'd look like a street hood. Angelina countered with the information that her bra size had gone up a couple of inches. Billy's face turned red at that sudden knowledge and stuttered something about how his biceps were noticeably larger. I told them I had finished reading about Humboldt and was considering putting him on a level equal to Neil Armstrong's. The other three looked at me like I had a screw loose.

June finally rolled around and found all three of us advanced to grade eleven for the next year. The last day of school might have been the last time we'd see each other on a regular basis until Fall, but Angelina suggested we make a regular habit of meeting at least twice a week. By the end of August, we were getting together almost every day, and when one or the other of us was forced to be gone on some holiday trip or other it was like a hole opened up in our existence. Since then I've known siblings who were close, but we four, back then, could have given the closest of them a run for the money.

Junior year was a telling experience for us. Suddenly the rote learning turned into putting rote learning to use and not all of us responded favorably. Kurt had a difficult time of it, and if algebra was a challenge, chemistry was pure torture. Between the three of us many hours were spent helping Kurt along the way and every C he earned was a triumph for us all. Of course all that extra involvement with new areas of learning did the rest of us a lot of good as well. While I pulled down B's with regularity and papers marked with the occasional A brought temporary feelings of triumph, Angelina and Billy had report cards that were monotonous in their A-ness. All that study time together might have brought out clashes of personality and driven wedges between us, but just the opposite happened and our friendship grew even stronger. I suspect that the other kids in our classes looked at us with a degree of suspicion or maybe thought we were just plain weird. Except for times when a non-Club member was forced upon us by circumstance of class team work or PE groupings, I can't remember any of them being a major element in my life. They were just the other kids, and we had to put up with their existence.

There was the time about mid-year when Billy and I thought it would be neat to have nicknames. You know names we would use and no one else would know about. Angelina would be Angie, Billy would be Kid after the western outlaw, I was CC for Chris Clark, and Kurt was KJ since he was a junior named after his father.

Angelina smiled at Billy and said "Sure, if that is what you want."

Kurt wasn't having any of it though. He said his name was Kurt, just Kurt and we should not try to change who he was. That was the first tiny rift in our friendship, even though I didn't recognize it at the time.

In February of that Junior year a new kid transferred in to our school at our grade level. I'm sure that sort of thing happened with regularity during the school year, but up until then it had not impacted our group. Fred, however, was a force to be reckoned with and he was placed in our midst in world history class. He formed a bounding wall between Kurt and Angelina that had not existed before, and every time they tried to communicate during class there was Fred in the way. We might have eventually learned to ignore Fred, but that didn't seem to be his plan. Maybe a week after he showed up in class he found our group at lunch in the cafeteria and invited himself to sit. After a few forced attempts at conversation it finally came out that we four were a club of sorts and always spent time together.

Fred asked the name of our club and laughed when Billy said "It's the Birthday Club, and membership is highly selective."

We thought that Fred would get the message and that was the last we'd see of him, but we were wrong.

I remember that another thing of note occurred about the same time. When we got to school in the morning not long after having lunch with Fred, we found police cars pulled up in the drop-off circle and a noisy buzz emanating from clusters of students standing outside the building. No one seemed to know what was going on, and it wasn't until class break before the last period when the rumor mill finally came up with an explanation.

A break-in at the records office resulted in files scattered all over, but there was no indication of what might have been taken. Then five minutes before the final bell, Vice Principal Henderson, the one who handed out discipline, came on the intercom to ask for information from anyone who might know anything.

This was a bit of welcome diversion for us, and when we met after school each one of us had a separate theory about who did what and why. Kurt was pretty sure it had been done by the local tough-guy bunch who regularly bullied anyone showing the slightest weakness. He argued that they would want to clean up on their discipline files since a couple of the older ones would be graduating and looking for references. Kid was equally certain that it had been done by the chess club, although his reasoning seemed to center on the situation surrounding their loss to Gaithersburg High at the regional matches and that meant some sort of negative, anti-nerd annotations had been made on their records, which they would certainly want to expunge. Angie, for once, had a different take on things than Kid and was absolutely certain that our local drug king Xavier was having a bad run and needed the petty cash that might have been hidden in the files. Since the other three had used up the best reasons by then, I had trouble coming up with anything new. I don't think that my suggestion that Mr. Nelson, the biology teacher, was trying to hide his predilection for helping co-eds after class by extracting negative information from his personnel file caught on with the other three. As usual, they just gave me that blank stare I'd become so familiar with.

All the excitement carried into the next day, but when nothing new came to light talk about the incident kind of died out in after school discussions in favor of complaining about the outrageous homework assignment in Chemistry. It was just one of those odd things that happen, but which sometimes come back to mind years later when an unrelated incident triggers the memory.

Junior year unfolded week by week: sometimes easy and fast, sometimes slow and painful. We were encouraged by nearly every teacher to start thinking about what would come after graduation. That seemed to me to be in the far, distant future and not really needing any direct action until say, Spring of Senior Year. I was taken by surprise two weeks later when both Angie and Kid announced tentative plans to apply to the University of Maryland. Kurt didn't say anything at the time, but I could tell that their news got him to thinking about something since he had very little to say afterward. Personally, I thought their decision might be premature, but it was another little hint that they had more in common than I realized. When they asked me what I thought of doing, I stumbled over describing some half-baked plan to become a carpenter's apprentice. That earned me another blank stare from the three of them.

It must have been near the end of December when Fred showed up at our lunch table for a second time. We'd forgotten about him, and his intrusion left us feeling a bit uncomfortable. Especially me, he kind of raised my hackles because of his intense mannerisms and loud voice. We didn't have to wait long before he got to the point of his visit.

"I've been thinking," he said, "about the name of your club and I couldn't get it out of my mind. So, I figured I'd just come right out and ask about it. I wondered what special thing about birthdays got you four together. Is it that you have birthdays in the same month, mine's in September by the way, or maybe you have the same astrological sign? It's just kind of bugging me, and if it's not too much of an intrusion I'd just like to know. Okay?"

We four traded looks that carried more than a little trepidation. It couldn't happen for a fifth time, could it? Kurt finally answered for us, even though I tried to will everyone to silence.

"No, nothing that general. We all have birthdays on the same day of the month, that's all."

"No kidding!" What are the odds on that? Wow, well my birthday is the 14th of September, how close does that come to yours?"

I suspect that the silence would have answered for us, but then Angie, by far the most kind-hearted of us, let out a small breath and admitted what I think we would all have preferred to keep to ourselves.

"Wow, Fred, it's Fred right? Wow Fred that is truly amazing. That's the day alright."

The rest of us stared at our trays and tried not to commit to anything, but that was a lost cause from the instant our commonality became known.

So, little by little and day by day, Fred installed himself into our group. Without invitation, but as we were to learn he was not to be denied anything when he set his mind to it. By the end of Junior Year Fred was with us at every occasion two of more of the original group got together. It didn't occur to us then that he was never around when we were individually alone, but had a kind of radar about a partial or complete meeting of the group.

Summer had nearly gotten half used up without our noticing that school was right around the corner, and we were lamenting the fact as we walked home from the arcade. We didn't notice the engine noise until it was almost on top of us. The car came barreling down Fuller Street with exhaust roaring and sun glaring off the tinted windshield. We all jumped to one side well ahead of it getting to our position, but then we stood frozen as it spewed exhaust fumes from the tail pipe and music from multiple speakers. It must have been doing fifty on our residential street as it passed, but suddenly slowed as a dog crossed the road ahead. Swerving to the right with horn blaring, it tried to miss the mongrel but was unsuccessful, sending Dee Dee far over the top of parked cars to land with a sodden thump on Old Mr. Carson's front porch. The swerve also brought the passenger side of the speeding Camero flat against the driver's side of Hugo Belliot's brand new Chrysler making a very long abrasion in paint and chrome and clipping the driver's side mirror to send it on much the same path Dee Dee had taken. The Camero did not pause after the side scrape, and once again the engine roared sending it faster than ever down Fuller Street and past the intersection with Oak.

We collected our wits and met in the middle of the street. Nothing ever happened on Fuller Street, but this would be a tale to tell and would elevate Fuller Street to yet unheard of heights. As we stood there in a circle prepping our individual story lines for what had just happened, Fred broke away and went to the bushes just beyond Mr. Carson's Porch where Dee Dee still lay unmoving. He came back holding the sheared off mirror from the Chrysler. He turned it over in his hands several times before looking up and giving s a smile. Thinking back, I believe that in that instant the future changed.

Angelina and Billy went over to look at the dead dog. They had some obviously unrealistic notion that Dee Dee might still be alive. As they squatted there trying to find a pulse, the door opened and Mr. Carson came storming out onto the porch. He took it all in for a spit second and then let out with a roar.

"What the Hell have you kids done now? What did you do to Dee Dee?"

He pushed both of them away and knelt by the corpse. There was no doubt that Dee Dee was dead and he gathered her up in his arms, head lolling down near his waist, and looked at us in turn, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"You damn kids. You will pay for this. Each blessed one of you. If the cops don't do something about this cruelty, then I will."

Billy and Angelina tried to explain what had happened. Kurt and I come up behind them to give support and add our voices, but Mr. Carson wasn't having any of it. He told us to get the hell out of his sight. We walked away quickly and reconvened at the stoop of Billy's house a few doors down. We noticed right off that Fred wasn't with us, but couldn't recall exactly when he went missing. We thought that he probably didn't want to have anything to do with our attempts to talk to Mr. Carson. I think we cut him a little slack since he had really not been part of the club all that long, and didn't feel the need to back us up.

I don't know if our words got through to Mr. Carson or not, but the cops never did show up at any of our houses. Of course, we stayed well away from his property after that, even walking an extra two blocks to keep out of sight of his front window.

Fred showed up the next day at the arcade and acted like nothing had happened. When Kurt asked him where he'd gotten off to, he replied that he had remembered a promise to meet his younger brother that afternoon, and had raced off without saying goodbye. That was the first mention of a brother, and it somehow set Fred a little more apart from the rest of us. Not that he noticed, of course. Fred was Fred, and nothing fazed him. I guessed to myself that he could probably not be put off by an out and out insult, and think it was a compliment instead.

"Now that you reminded me," he said, "I did wonder if any of you had noticed who was driving the Camero? No? Well from the quick look I got when the driver turned his head to look at us, I think it was Xavier. You know Xavier, right?"

Somehow that intelligence didn't strike any of us as strange or unlikely. If anyone was going to be an ass like the driver of the Camero had been, Xavier Cipriano would be as likely as anyone we knew. But, if there was anyone who we would most like to be on the other side of the town from it was Xavier Cipriano.

We spent the rest of the afternoon coming up with reasons for Xavier's behavior the day before with possibilities ranging from his making a run from law enforcement, to practicing for a drag race. Fred seemed to know a little more than the rest of us about Xavier's background, and that seemed strange at the time. But, he let the topic drop from conversation in favor of describing his visit to a tattoo parlor that morning to arrange for a little "art work", as he put it. Kurt was the only one to decide that tattoos were an acceptable topic of conversation. He mentioned seeing a Marine Corps tattoo on his Uncle Jed's arm and thought it was pretty cool. He asked Fred what he intended to have inked in, but never got a straight answer before we split up to head to our respective homes for dinner.

We all forgot about the Camero and Xavier for the rest of the Summer, but the incident on Fuller Street came back on the first day of school in our Senior Year. The five of us were standing around after classes trading class schedules and first day opinions when Xavier came strolling by in the company of a couple of his buddies, and his current girlfriend. He stopped a few feet away from us and turned to talk to his companions in a voice so low we couldn't hear. Then he came over to our group, and looked at each of us in turn.

"You guys know who I am, right? Look, just out of curiosity I was wondering if anything happened over summer that you might be wondering about? I'm kind of taking a survey for my civics class, and you could help me a lot by telling me about summertime activities. I see all you guys together all the time, so I figured that you might like to share what group activities you spent time on during Summer. I'll even give you a reference in the paper I'm going to write. I think I've got all your names right. Chris Clark, Kurt Dawson, Angelina Kelly, Billy Morton," he pointed to each of us in turn, "and Fred...Fred. What is your last name Fred? You'd want to be included, right?"

"No, no," Fred replied, "that's cool Xavier. I don't like publicity, you know?"

"Oh, yeah? Well, have it your way. I'm sure I can figure it out somehow. You all take care now. Keep it safe and sane, you know? I'll let you know when the paper is done so you can read it."

"What the Hell was that all about?" Kurt was confused just like the rest of us. Xavier hadn't even waited for our response to his question.

Angie said it first, "Remember Dee Dee the dog and Fuller Street? Fred said Xavier was the driver."

"Did I?" Fred seemed nervous as he spoke, "I don't remember that so well. Maybe we shouldn't be talking it up. You know?"

"Come on," I said, "you really think Xavier is going to get on our cases about remembering him driving a car that killed a dog? I doubt he even remembers it."

"I wouldn't bet on that," Fred said.

Apparently the topic was closed at that point and Fred took off at a fast walk in what we assumed was the direction of his home.

Senior year, at least for me, went by like a blur. I don't know how it was for Kid, Angie and Kurt, but I had the impression that we all behaved like perfect learning machines that year. Even me, who still had no firm idea of what was to follow graduation. Fred still hung around whenever two or more of us gathered, but nearly always disappeared well before the rest of us called it a night. He didn't do as much bragging either. It was really weird somehow, it's true we really didn't know Fred as well as we did each other but he became even more of a puzzle as the last year of high school came to an end.

We all graduated with superior grades, proof that teamwork can really bring amazing results. All of us except Kurt had been looking into college for months by then and Angelina and Billy had been accepted by the University of Maryland. Kid was going to be a lawyer and Angie an anthropologist. Kurt, much to our collective dismay opted to go into the army, and since he'd turned eighteen last birthday in just two weeks after graduation he was off to basic training.

Fred didn't seem in any big hurry to get on with his future, and when we asked him about his plans he was stoically non-committal.

"No big rush," he'd say. Or, "I've got some plans going but they'll take some time to develop."

I kind of understood that kind of thinking since I didn't yet have a clue about what college, or what kind of career I'd like. Mom and Dad were not much help in this regard. I don't think they really had any hope that even if I did get into a school I'd last more than a year. My straight B Senior Year didn't cause them to change their opinion of my scholarly credentials.

KURT

It wasn't a hard choice. It was the only choice. Once it was clear that Angie had feelings for Kid, and that consequently I didn't have a chance at a life at home, joining up was the only option. I'd wanted to join the Marines, but I couldn't pass the physical. That really bummed me out and I thought about the Navy and the Air Force, but what the Hell, sailors and airmen didn't get on the front line. If there was anything I wanted more than Angie, it was to make Uncle Jed proud of me.

It was different from Uncle Jed's time though. Even in the Army they make you take tests to determine where you shine and where you don't. Turned out I couldn't shoot my way out of a paper bag, but my General Area score was pretty high so I wound up in the miscellaneous category. Half way through basic, I took a test for electronics and came in fourth highest when they needed only one person, and by the last week of basic I still had no idea of where I'd wind up. That's when I found out that my choice had been made for me and I was sent for additional training as a medic.

I was pretty pissed at the news. That's not exactly a combat assignment, or so I thought at the time. A week later I was shipped off to the other side of the base for an additional four months of training to qualify for a Combat Health Specialist slot.

I won't pretend that the training was easy. It wasn't. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about all the things you can do to a body, and about some of the ways you can try to fix it once those things are done. When the end of training came, it seemed way too soon. I didn't think I'd ever be ready to patch up someone under field conditions let alone in a training environment. They weren't going to give me more time. A week's leave and I was off to Iraq at the height of hostilities. It was 2007 and our guys were dropping left, right and center, and lots were coming home damaged in bad ways. To say I was scared wouldn't even come close to describing it. I'd be out there trying to keep damage to a minimum. Hopeless, helpless, totally inadequate with a med kit instead of a rifle. Scared? Yeah, you could say so.

The first week was comparatively easy. I was assigned to a unit that was still manning up. Still getting the last bit of training on equipment that was being improved continuously—or so they claimed. That was a matter for debate if you listened to the old timers. Old timers, what a laugh. The oldest guy in the squad was thirty and already had two rotations under his belt, this being the third. He had seniority by virtue to lasting longer than anyone else with only minor wounds of the skin. Wounds of the mind was a different thing, and he had those scars deep and plenty. After a while, I came to believe those wounds were the ones you couldn't avoid and no armor offered protection from.

I've always been good at detachment. Putting all the stuff you don't want to deal with up on some shelf in the back lobe of your brain and hoping it doesn't get shaken loose. And, for a while—a long while on Iraqi time—that worked just fine.

Then came that day in February, 2008. It was cold, windy, dusty, and just plain felt dirty. The squad had a position to hold until reinforcements came by air. The ten of us were hunkered down behind some low hills just off a paved road that connected two medium sized villages in the heart of enemy terrain. Intel had several groups of enemy scattered ahead of us over some several miles of poorly defined front. They had been in position for the better part of a month and the idea was to give them something to think about and maybe drive a wedge between two fractions. We were waiting for another five squads. It was our job to establish primary position and give safe landing to the reinforcements. We'd gotten into position at dawn that day after being dropped by armored vehicles, all of which but one had returned to base. The one remaining had backup supplies and equipment and was snuggled in as close as possible to the hillside.

Sarge sent the two fire teams to separate positions on adjacent hill slopes with instructions to cover left and right flanks, but not to fire unless fired upon. Airborne recon indicated that this particular spot was far enough from identified enemy positions to not attract attention until the other squads arrived. That was the plan, but airborne recon missed a bunch of hostiles within an hour's walk of our position. They announced their presence with a mortar barrage just as we were settling in. The Humvee went first, then Fire Team One got hit by a round landing within ten feet, A piece of shrapnel from a third grenade caught Sarge as he was running to help, and his helmet was no match for the jagged piece of steel.

Then the rifle fire started. Rounds seemed to come from all directions, but probably it just seemed that way as ricochets off what remained of the Humvee bounced back in our direction. Two guys from Fire Team Two took up a separate position to improve coverage. Corporal Hedges called in for support, of course, but was told we had to hold on for at least thirty minutes. Not having any choice, we tried.

I shouldered my kit and set off for Fire Team One's position, and passed Sarge on the way. It was clear that he had died instantly. I checked his weapon for damage, and took it with me. The four men of Fire Team One were clumped together behind a small elevation near the hill top. The RPG had done a lot of damage. Two of them were gone, and the other two were severely injured. Riley had a deep head wound with skull and brain matter exposed, and Brown was missing the left arm below the elbow and had a gash in his side about where the lowest rib lay. Both were bleeding and in danger of dying, but they needed a hospital and not a field medic. I got pressure bandages on both of them and checked for other injuries. Shouting from Fire Team Two's direction caught my attention and I turned in time to see a group of hostiles overrun their position. It was going to be over in minutes if something good didn't happen. Of the eight hostiles, three were down in seconds, but the remaining five were hand to hand with

Johnson and Entelmann. Hedges and Devoe were down and unmoving. It was not going well, and I thought we would all be dead soon.

That's when I caught the noise of droning aircraft engines. I looked towards the direction of the sound just in time to see the fuselage of a C-130 gun ship rise above a hill top to the southeast. I watched as geysers of dirt and rock flew into the air as impacts of the airship's Gatling gun ammo strafed the enemy positions. The three hostiles still alive, took off running over the hill side and dirt flew into the air from ground not more than ten feet from what was left of Fire Team Two. Visions of death by friendly fire sped through my head. The C-130 finished the first run and turned through a 180 to make a pass in the opposite direction, but apparently couldn't identify targets as its guns remained silent.

That's when a scraping noise came from over the ridge of the hill in front of my position. A few seconds later a figure cleared the top of the hill. I was holding Sarge's rifle. Without thinking I raised it and squeezed the trigger. Almost in slow motion I saw the figure look in my direction and begin to raise the rifle above its head in a gesture of surrender. But, it was too late. The trigger reached full depression and I felt the recoil as the round left the barrel. Maybe I just imagined it, but the eyes below the swaddled head went wide and the mouth opened in what would have been a scream. The scream never came as the figure arched backward over the hilltop.

I don't know how much time went by after that. The C-130 had gone away and chopper noises were taking the place of its drone. I got to my feet and holding the rifle in a ready fire position I climbed the rest of the way to the top of the hill and looked down the opposite side. There he was. Dressed in dirty, ripped clothes and lying face up with his head pointing down the hill slope. Half of his throat had been blown away, but I could still see his face. It was a kid. Couldn't have been more than thirteen; if that. I couldn't force myself to look away.

Then five minutes, twenty minutes, or sixty minutes later I had no sense of passing time, a hand fell on my shoulder and a voice said in English, "Soldier, look away now. We've got control of this position. Your fight is over."

I found out that he was wrong. My squad was left with one alive, and that was me. When they asked me to debrief back at base, I couldn't remember much at all. They told me that Riley and Brown would probably have made it if help had come a few minutes earlier, but both died during airlift back to base. Fire Team Two died in place, and I couldn't have done anything to save them. Maybe, maybe not. I never had a chance to find out. I'd frozen in place after killing the child dressed in rags.

They gave up on fixing me at base and sent me to a hospital in Germany. I was there for three weeks before the hospital shrink also gave up on me. Then they sent me home with an honorable discharge in my packet, and told me to make an appointment at the VA hospital in Baltimore. I never did that. That would mean talking about it all over again, and again.

Now that I'm home I don't want to talk about it. Ever.

KID

That first day of school when the four of us met is always with me in the back of my mind. After all, that's when I met Angie. It didn't start off as love at first sight. We were just kids, after all. Just the same, I felt some sort of tug that day when she looked at me with those dark brown eyes and asked my name. It was a stroke of fortune when our birthdays were discovered to be identical, and we merged into what would quickly become a close knit clan. It meant that I could be with Angie and not seem to be stalking her.

Almost immediately we knew we had found in each other a perfect companion. We took our time about it, not wanting to miss out on being kids for as long as possible. It wasn't until we were sophomores in college that we finally gave into chemistry and moved onto the next step in our relationship. Then in our Junior year we pooled our resources, student loans, scholarships, part time jobs and money from home to rent an off-campus house to share. It has been idyllic since then, and neither of us has any complaint about the way things turned out. We can hardly wait for graduation when maybe we'll even give some thought to a family.

Sure, the other two members of the Club were worth hanging out with as well. Kurt was a strong, silent type and if he held any passions worth defending they weren't hanging out on his sleeve. Even after it came to be clear that maybe he had feelings for Angie not much different than mine it didn't cause a rift. He seemed to know that being her friend was as good as it was going to get. No point in letting raging hormones destroy a friendship. That's the way it stayed all through high school. He was the strong brother I never had, and I could ask him anything with expectation of a completely honest answer. I never did ask him about his feelings for Angie though—no point in tempting fate that way.

When he joined the Army, I felt a pang of fear that wouldn't go away. When he shipped out for Iraq, it seemed like a part of my family was leaving for good. When he came back broken, my heart ached for the loss of a friend. I had a hard time after that just being in his company on the days between semesters when we were all at home and looking to catch up.

Then there was, is, CC. Always an enigma, you are never quite sure what is going on in that head of his. You might expect an answer that made sense when asking him a question, but we all soon learned that the question he was answering wasn't necessarily ours, and was more likely to be his. Sometimes the questions, his and ours, would match, but quite often they did not and it left us stranded trying to draw a correlation. CC is sort of a unique thinker, and I doubt that a straight line forms any part of his thought processes.

I could never understand why he didn't give college a try. CC is not dumb, and in some ways he's smarter than the rest of us put together. It would certainly have been a wondrous experiment: CC against the cumulative might of rote college education.

Never mind though, CC has other qualities that make him easy to befriend. Loyal to a fault, supportive even when it's clear that one of us tried something that clearly should not have been attempted, and there to listen to endless complaints against that aspect of the world that was currently the source of angst. At least I never had to worry about him making a move on Angie. He seemed to be oblivious to affairs of the heart. When Angie occasionally attempted to hook him up with a likely female companion it would invariably fail for lack of interest on his part. He seemed perfectly happy with the social opportunities afforded by our clan.

Fred, the late comer to our group has always been a deeper mystery to me. It is very easy to dismiss Fred as a sociopath in training. Larceny seems to be the keystone of his personality, and getting the best out of any situation a matter of necessity. Of course, all of that wasn't apparent upon first meeting. Some of it, including the most undesirable traits has come up rather late in our collective relationship. Particularly for Angie, CC and me since Kurt has kind of disconnected from keeping up any pretense of contributing to our social group.

Lately I've actually discovered a use for Fred. One he is unaware of, I think, and I'm hoping that will remain constant until the end of the project. I signed up for a seminar at the start of Junior year, out of curiosity at first, but then with a growing interest as the subject matter evolved. I was finally taking courses in my major, criminal law, with the intent on specializing as a prosecutor when I earned my law degree. The department head advertised a seminar at the end of the previous semester and mine was the first name on the sign-up list. He was calling the seminar "The Principles of Criminal Investigation" and it was supposed to be our introduction into how criminal cases were developed from the ground up. There promised to be lots of intense discussion about the how's and why's of nailing down evidence and making it watertight for trial. The mid-term paper was to take on a very personal touch, as each of us was to find an unsolved case in our hometown law enforcement files, and to prepare a step by step description of how we were going to bring new evidence to light. The more specific, the better Dr. Olson said, and half of our semester grade would depend upon our work. Lots of incentive there.

When back in town over a weekend at the start of the new semester, I pestered the local constabulary and finally talked them into giving me a list of recent unsolved crimes, but only after promising not to go sleuthing around any of the witnesses. This was supposed to be a theoretical project, and don't you forget it, they said. I looked the relatively short list over, and at first was disappointed about the nature of the crimes involved. Not much there to be excited about unless you thought that shoplifting and vandalism were significant criminal activities. They were arranged in order of age with the newest at the top of the list. I was about to give up in despair until next to last was something that would get anyone's investigative instincts bubbling.

Almost three years earlier, the then-current drug kingpin had been found stuffed into the trunk of a car, which was then set afire. It was done ten miles outside of town on a back road, and a surprisingly long time passed before the crime had been discovered and reported. By then all hope of a clean crime scene and meaningful clues remaining unblemished by time and weather was pretty much gone. But, that's all right, I thought. It's a wide open field for investigation and I could really show off my reasoning powers with little fear of being proven wrong. I made a quick decision about it and requested copies of anything the cop shop would let me have, which turned out to be damned little. Basically, there was a brief life history of the deceased, one Philippi Gonzalez, a gruesome summary of autopsy results, and a description of the auto he called home at the end of his life.

So here I am pouring over the evidence in the case and trying to put together a course of investigation. Angie listened while I explained what I was doing, offered to help in whatever way I needed, and went off to study the Anthropology texts in preparation for class the next day. I still haven't figured out why she's chosen Anthro for a major. Sure it's a science, but dry and dead I think. Not at all like the biology I thought she wanted to study since high school. I'll ask her about it pretty soon, when she's had time to decide if she still thinks it a field worth pursuing. Then I had to chuckle, here I am looking into a dead case file and I'm going to complain about her non-living study subjects? By now, I was really getting into the flow of the research on Philippe Gonzalez's last days, and didn't want to stop--even for dinner.

Phillippe had been stuffed into the trunk of a late model Chevy. Presumably that happened post-mortem since no trace of tied hands or feet was in evidence, but then everything was burned to a crisp so who really knows? Cause of death, as written in the autopsy summary report, could have been anything from carbon monoxide poisoning to a blunt implement, but see the attached note from the forensic medical examiner. That piece of evidence wasn't among the papers I'd managed to scrounge so I'd have to improvise. Basically, everything really was crispy and direct evidence was lacking. The phraseology left a sour taste in my mouth and I went to get a cup of tea and bother Angie for a while.

ANGIE

When we first met in that other lifetime back in high school I knew almost immediately that one of those guys would eventually mean a great deal to me. It was a feeling that cropped up every time we got together in those early first days. For a while, I thought it might be Kurt, the best looking and muscular male of the bunch. It gradually came to me that while he was undoubtedly a good guy and would make a great mate for someone; that someone wasn't going to be me. He was like a brother I had imagined in early childhood before Dad was killed and the possibility of siblings died with him. Mom seemed to have no interest in starting a new relationship, and I suppose I didn't blame her. Dad had been her be-all and end-all. No one else would ever come close so why try?

CC was culled from the short list soon afterward. He still is a wonderful guy, and we'd do anything for each other that was asked, but imagining romance with him left me thinking of the stuffed bunny I'd loved as a ten-year old. Nice to be around, but now I was grown and the bunny had a shelf to hold up. No, I liked CC well enough, but he was not even sibling-like let alone mate material.

By the end of two weeks after we'd formed the Club it was obvious that Billy the Kid was the one. I still remember the day much later when he insisted we each had a nickname so that our communications could be "internalized". I love my name, Angelina has such a melodious sound to it, almost like a line of poetry; but I realized even then that Billy's wish would be mine as well. I've put up with Angie for years now, and I suppose I'm stuck with it. At the same time, I thought his nickname "Kid", not "The Kid", but just "Kid" was silly. I might call him Kid when in company of the other guys, but in my private thoughts, he will always be Billy. Billy didn't realize it until much later, but our lot was cast from week two on.

High school and the Club made up my late teen years entirely. There were no other interests or distractions. At first, Mom certainly let me know that she thought I ought to get around a bit more and worried that I had settled on so few friends so early. Later, when she had spent some time with the guys after that first birthday party, I could tell she had a change of heart. She even said at one time that I had been really lucky to find such a group of good friends. Gradually, she came to understand that one of the guys maybe meant a little bit more to me than the others. To her credit, she didn't fret and wail about how I might ruin my life if I wasn't careful. Instead, she made an appointment with the family doctor, set me down in her office and then left to read magazines in the waiting room. Forty-five minutes later I came out a much wiser, and somewhat apprehensive teenager holding a prescription for birth control pills. As it turned out, by mutual consent, Billy and I had no need of them until Sophomore year in college.

A lot of things happened at the start of the Junior year at the University of Maryland, and romance was just a part of the fun and games. Billy and I were finally starting classes in our respective majors: criminal law for him and anthropology for me. I took a lot of good natured ribbing when I told him what I wanted to study, but eventually he came to realize that I had a real interest in things long past. Especially the puzzles involved: how did people live, what did they do, eat, wear, and how did civilization that existed then turn into what we see today? So many questions. Unfortunately, as Billy pointed out, getting someone to pay you to try answering those questions might be difficult. I thought then that if you are good enough and passionate enough things will always work out. I don't think that way anymore.

Things went bad at the beginning of Junior Year, just after Billy had his first seminar meeting. He gradually became more and more involved in that cold case of his, to the point of letting our time together shrink to nearly nothing. It remained that way until nearly three weeks into the semester when he had some sort of breakthrough, and he came out of the bedroom/study gave me a big hug and said, "Finally, some progress!"

I was still miffed about being ignored and didn't ask what had come to light. Now, I wish I had. Maybe things would have gone differently. When he left the apartment the next morning it was to mark the end of our life together.

FRED

I was really bummed when Dad stuffed me and all our belongings into a pickup and moved us to this slum on the edge of civilization. It was already terrible times because Mom had been sent to the hospital under sedation just the month before. That was made worse by the crap I got from older kids at Union High. They called my Mom psycho, and said she'd tried to write her name with a steak knife in the back of Bruce the cook.

It hadn't been good for a long time by then. Dad worked the early shift at the mill and by the time he got home, Mom would already be gone to do the afternoon and late shifts at the town's only café. She came home one night acting funny, and she and Dad had a big fight about it. I didn't know until later that someone had started her on cocaine and Vicodin. It only got worse after that, until Bruce refused to give her any more drugs one night because she wouldn't go to the storeroom with him. Dad found out the next day that she had paid for the drugs that way for months by then. I think that after Mom had been put into the hospital with no set date of release and people around town started talking about it there came a day when Dad snapped. He went out that night and came back after midnight bruised and cut with his right hand set in a cast. The next morning everything was in the truck and we were on our way out of town. The only box I packed had my stuff in it: a brush from my Mom's dresser, a Power Ranger, and a flat football.

I still have that box; it's on the top shelf in my closet near the other stuff that I have to keep secret.

I'd be going to a new school, and at least that was a good thing. Union High held nothing but bad memories for me. Dozens of trips to the Vice Principal's office to answer for getting into trouble, or, more often, for being set up to take the fall for someone else. I was small for my age and trying to compete with guys half a foot taller and 50 pounds heavier was never easy, but it got worse after my birthday in October of my sophomore year. Dad had actually given me something I wanted that year. It was a genuine pigskin football, with a big NFL stamped into it. I was pretty sure it would be my ticket to being accepted by the guys I tried to hang out with. The Saturday following my birthday, I took the football to the park where flag football games sprung up during football season at a moment's notice. A bunch of guys in my class and a few juniors were already there, and when they saw my new football it was automatic they'd start a game. The usual two juniors took the captain positions and started calling names for teams. There were an odd number of us and when it came down to the last choose it wasn't me. Hank, the skins captain told me I could be honorary water boy, and the rest of them laughed.

They went off to set end lines and goals, leaving me there to stew in my anger. I still don't know why I did it, but I took out my pocket knife and put the narrow blade right through the laces of my new ball. When Hank and the others got back and grabbed the ball out of my hands I felt a kind of triumph at their expressions. Hank threw the ball at my head and deflated or not, I still got a black eye from it. That feeling of triumph didn't last very long either, bullying at school only got worse since they had something specific to rag me about. When I got home that day, Dad was there and asked me how the game went. Then he saw my black eye and the flat ball and drug the story out of me bit by bit. He didn't say anything afterward, but that look on his face hurt more than all the taunts Hank and the others gave out.

As I sat and looked out of the window at the passing scenery along the road east I hoped that the new place would mean my life would be different from there on out. It took most of what was left of the night to drive from western Maryland to the suburbs of Washington, D. C. Dad seemed to think that it would be easy to find work because it was the "land of subcontractors", or at least that's what he said. We stopped just before dawn in a small park, and Dad told me to try to get some sleep while he picked up a copy of the local newspaper. That first day we spent driving from place to place looking for something to rent and finally settled on a small mobile home in one of the wildcat trailer parks that were near the low-class housing neighborhoods. One reason Dad picked it was that Wheaton High was just a few blocks away. Well within walking distance.

He took me there first thing the next morning to get me registered. We sat in the Administration Office for nearly an hour before someone finally beckoned us to a desk. She was nice enough, I suppose, but didn't seem to have much regard for us. While she was filling out some sort of form on her computer monitor, I just sat there and listened to Dad rattle off information. When it came to the part about previous schools, I tried wishing that Dad would have forgotten the name. No such luck. A couple of questions about medical history and it was done. I'd be the newest student at Wheaton High beginning next morning at 8 o'clock. She printed out the form and looked it over trying to find mistakes, and then she punched holes at the top of the page and put it into a brown folder that had my name on the tab. I thought that it would go into one of the file cabinets lining the wall behind her. They had metal rods down through the handles with a padlock at the top to prevent just anyone from looking inside.

Dad was anxious to leave by then because he wanted to get started looking for work. He asked if there was anything else, and the woman said no, not at that time. Then she said something that made a chill go up my back.

"When we receive Frederick's records from Union," she said "we'll have him come to the office and meet Mr. Holloway, the principal. We try to go over every transfer student's background face to face so that each will feel a personal interest has been taken. It shouldn't take more than a week or so, Frederick. To get you started the right way, here is a schedule of your classes for this year. Since you've elected not to take college prep classes there are a lot of different choices you could make, but you should spend a few days getting to know the place before you make any changes. Meanwhile, welcome to Wheaton High! We know you are going to be happy here!"

I hated that she called me by my full name and had my doubts about being happy here. I could see my future shrinking down to a repetition of the bullshit I'd put up with at Union. Once they had my records, it wouldn't take long before every teacher on staff would know about me and my history.

I focused on the tall water tank that was next to my new school as a guide, and the walk from the trailer to school the next morning was over too soon. I had a nervous stomach going into the doorway and looking for directions to my homeroom. That first morning passed in a blur, and before I knew it the bell rang for lunch. I had money for the cafeteria, but didn't have any appetite. I picked up a carton of juice and found an empty table in a corner where I could try to avoid attention. The cafeteria was filled with kids of all sizes, but most of them were bigger than me, just like at Union. All of them had their groups it seemed, and very few kids sat alone.

Feeling more out of place than ever I scanned the tables looking with hope of finding someone my own size. Lunch period was nearly over and I hadn't found anyone I felt a good vibe about, but then I caught sight out of the corner of my eye a group of four sitting pretty much alone. I recognized two of them from my world history class. There was a kind of buffer zone around them like the rest of the student body had put them in quarantine. That was something I could relate to. I spent lunch periods during the rest of the week concentrating on the foursome, wondering how to make a connection, or for that matter if I wanted to make a connection. By then, I had concluded I'd been wrong about them being in a kind of quarantine. Just the opposite, they seemed to have excluded the rest of the student body and had no interest in anyone else. That really roused my curiosity, and I decided to take a chance on Monday by introducing myself. Maybe I could fit in somehow.

Monday lunchtime came and I made my move. Right off the bat, I sensed that they were not happy about opening up to me. The guy called Kurt seemed to take a personal dislike even though he didn't know anything about me. The guy named CC didn't say a word the whole time, and I wondered if he had a brain. But Angie made the difference, and when she asked a question I thought I would be grudgingly allowed to remain. Afterward in metal shop, I half listened to the instructor talk about welding techniques while I ran through what I'd learned about Kid, Kurt, CC and Angie. They had been polite. Probably more polite than I deserved since I broke in on their private together time. At least they hadn't tried to get rid of me in a mean way, and I thought that maybe we could get along if I tried more than usual. The whole idea of a Birthday Club struck me as silly, maybe even something that belonged in elementary school, not in high school. They hadn't gotten very far into telling me about it before the bell had rung, but I thought there had to be something more to it than I could see right off. I decided to take my time and do it right. If they could accept me into their group, it would make high school more bearable. That would be worth trying, even if I had to tone down some of my impulses so that I could fit in.

The next period I had PE where Coach Jillion handed me a note saying that my records had come in, and I should report to the office tomorrow morning after homeroom. Panic set in immediately. I couldn't concentrate on anything and when my turn came to climb the rope Coach Jillion must have called my name a half dozen times before I noticed. I'd always been pretty good at physical stuff despite my size, and I managed good time up and down the rope. The expression on Coach's face went from annoyance to a smile when I touched down on the mat. Maybe it wouldn't be all bad here, after all. Those records could ruin any chance I had, but I had no idea of what to do about them.

I had a tough time falling asleep that night. The later it got, the more desperate I felt. At three in the morning I knew what I had to do. There were risks, but the alternative might be worse. I got up, checked to make sure that Dad was still snoring, dressed in old clothes, and put on a couple of sweaters since it was a cold night. The walk to school was quick, but at any moment I expected a cop car to come around a corner and find me out wandering. The window in metal shop that was always slightly open to let out fumes was still open and slid upward without much force needed. Wheaton High was a 2A school and being small didn't have much trouble with an unruly student body so unlike Union, where trouble happened all the time, there were no hallway cameras. The door to the administration office was latched with a simple spring bolt. Back in my hometown I had learned to open those months ago with a plastic card; after being challenged to break in to a convenience store after hours just for the fun of it, and for a couple of six-packs. Some skills might not be quite legitimate, but I was glad for this one in particular. The padlock holding the rod in place was more of a challenge, and I had to look around for something to force it with. I remembered looking back as Dad and I left this same office a couple of weeks earlier and seeing the woman who had filled out my registration form get something from her desk before going to the file to put my folder away.

Huh, that couldn't be, could it? I opened the top drawer of her desk and found a ring of keys sitting there in plain sight. The fourth one I tried opened the cabinet with the drawer labeled Students: Fa-Ho. And, there it was, fatter than the last time I'd seen it. Full of my history at Union. It took less than ten minutes to sort through and find the sheets of paper that detailed my various visits to the vice principal's office at Union. I took out all of them except for the cover sheet, went to the computer on the woman's desk, which was in sleep mode. No security at all! It took just a few seconds to print out a page saying "NO DISCIPLINE RECORDS" to put behind the cover sheet in my file. Replacing the folder, the rod and padlock took less than a minute.

I was ready to reverse my steps and make a clean break when another idea hit. I had to unlock two more file cabinets, but finding folders labeled Christopher Clark and Angelina Kelly didn't take long. I almost laughed out loud when I checked the entries showing birth dates. I didn't know Kid's last name, but would have looked for Kurt's file next except a light reflected off the hallway window glass and I thought I heard footsteps. Someone was coming from the direction of the shop class wing, and I panicked thinking my break-in had been discovered. It took some effort but I got under control and replaced the files. The light was stronger now, and the footsteps clearer. I didn't think there was time to put the two rods and padlocks back, and I had to find a way out fast. I pulled a few folders out at random from both drawers and laid them on the woman's desk and put the key ring on top of them. Maybe I could hide under a desk. No, too exposed since they were tables more than desks. I was thinking about trying to make an end run around whoever was walking down the corridor when I saw the emergency exit in the far wall. "An alarm will sound if opened" the sign read, but by then I could see the form of a tall guy with a flashlight just come even with the hallway window.

The alarm went off before I'd gotten more than one step out the doorway, but I didn't stop to look back. There was a row of low bushes a hundred feet away and I was a fast runner.

Just a few hours later, still pumped by adrenalin, I stood around with other kids watching a couple of cops talk things over with a man I thought might be the school principal. They finished saying something and then split up with the cops going to their cars and the man opening the front door of the school. It was still fifteen minutes before class bell, but the man waved us into the building anyway.

He smiled as we walked in and told us, "Nothing to worry about folks, just a little trouble last night. Classes as usual!" His smile got even bigger when the chorus of boos started up.

The meeting with Principal Holloway went as scheduled right after homeroom. I felt a little guilty as I was waiting for him in the chair at the woman's desk. She was blowing her nose while she put stuff into a cardboard box. I could see a framed picture of a man with two kids at the bottom and had a pretty good idea about what was going on. I felt bad for her, I really did, but it was her or me.

Maybe Mr. Holloway was surprised at my file, or maybe not; he didn't say. I could tell that something bothered him, and I started to worry I hadn't gotten all the bad stuff.

Then he said, "Frederick, I see that you had a tough time with some subjects at your last school. It's probably good that you've switched to a non-academic curriculum here at Wheaton because those grades would keep you from graduating. You might have to take a couple of remedial classes even so. I'll ask our counselor to go over these records and meet with you about some options. I see that they assigned a couple of shop classes this year. How do you feel about that?"

"Yeah," I agreed, "my grades were lousy at Union. I just couldn't get into the classes I had to take. My mother was always pushing me to go to college, but I don't think I've got the right stuff for that. I like using my hands, making stuff, you know? I think I could get into a job where something useful came out at the end of a day. I've been to metal shop and graphic arts and I like them both fine. Maybe I could even be a draftsman."

"Frederick," Mr. Holloway said, "that is a remarkably mature attitude for one your age. I am very pleased that you are thinking along those lines, and I will be happy to see you succeed. Good luck to you, young man!"

I didn't waste any time telling more lies, that's how you get into trouble. The more details you add the more you have to remember. On the other hand, with any luck, I'd never talk to Holloway again.

Once I was in the Birthday Club I played it up as much as I could without being obnoxious. I discovered that I actually liked Kid and CC, they were usually easy to get along with, and I found myself wanting to spend time with them. Kurt was a different matter; I was convinced that he didn't like me. I just tried to keep out of his way as much as possible. Angie, I like the name Angelina a lot more, but I wasn't supposed to know that was her name, so I couldn't call her that. She was more than cute, and before long I think I had a thing for her. Not that I could do anything about it. Even if she wasn't hooked on Kid, I didn't stand a chance with her. Even barefoot she was a couple of inches taller than me.

I spent the rest of Junior year tagging along with the Birthday Club guys whenever I could. I had never had real friends before, and it was pretty nice to have someone to talk to when I wanted. I noticed how they all helped each other with school work, and almost wished I was taking some of those classes so I could participate. Not that I would seriously consider doing that, shop classes didn't demand much after school time, and I had things going on by Thanksgiving that year that took up a lot of evening hours.

Sometimes it was hard keeping those two parts of my life separate, but I knew in my gut that if Angie or Kurt, or maybe even Kid found out about what I did when they weren't around I'd be history. Eventually, I came to realize that my membership in the Birthday Club was valuable for other reasons. I think it's called diversionary tactics. If people see you hanging out with the good guys, pretty soon you're a good guy, too. When I mentioned that to Xavier, he had a good laugh and told me to keep my nose out of trouble. He was kidding, of course.

The closest I ever came to having those two parts of my life collide was during the Summer between Junior and Senior years. We were walking in the middle of a street not far from Kid's house on the way back from the arcade. I heard an engine rev down the street and saw a red car round the corner and head in our direction. It was going pretty fast, and one thing I've learned is that you don't stand around when something bad might happen. You find a place to watch, some place out of the way, where nobody can see you. So, I dropped out of the group while they were watching the car approach and got down behind a couple of trash cans waiting for pick-up. I almost yelled at them to get the hell out of the way, but then they moved aside just before the car swerved to avoid something in the road. Two things flew over my head as I crouched there; one looked soft and furry and the other hard and shiny. They were all staring after the car as it disappeared down the road and didn't see me get out from behind the trash cans. From where I had been crouching I had a pretty good view of the driver of the car. It was Xavier. He was the last guy I wanted to admit knowing. I looked at the dead dog on the porch and thought I saw the shiny thing in the bushes just the other side of the porch. There was nothing to do about the dog, but the shiny thing interested me and I went to retrieve it. It was a mirror, knocked off a car, but not off the car Xavier had been driving. It did have a streak of red paint on it, and even though I had no idea if that was important I decided to keep it just in case. Then an old man came out to yell at us, but I kept out of the way and broke off from the group as soon as they were occupied explaining what had happened.

Senior year was both good and very bad. I had nothing but shop classes to attend so cutting school was not a problem. I usually showed up only on the days when the Birthday Club had something going on. The shop teachers didn't much care as long as I turned projects in on time. For a while, I really thought I did like doing stuff with my hands. Trouble was I just wasn't any good at it. Right angles turned into wrong angles, two sides didn't match, seams fell apart, screws got stripped, nails got bent, and welding torches got plugged. I think that the instructors, after a while, were just as happy if I didn't show up at all. I still got straight C's though, because they would have to explain lower grades after a while and they definitely wanted me to graduate.

That left me with a lot of time to do other things. Money became easy to get, if I didn't mind doing things other people didn't want to do. Pretty soon I had a list of satisfied customers, and sometimes had to farm out jobs to a couple of subcontractors. I thought it was funny because that was the first thing Dad said when we got to town that early morning. Yeah, it's a subcontractor town alright.

Dad got a call one night saying that Mom had been let out of the hospital because funding dried up and she had been there long enough to be cured. They were pretty sure about that. I don't know how they got his cell phone number, he cursed about that and went out the next day to get a new service. I would have liked to see Mom again, but she never did show up on our doorstep. I could understand Dad's feelings. After all, she had done him wrong and he wasn't the forgiving kind. I was well aware of that fact myself having felt his fury more than once over the past couple of years.

We were Father and Son, but only just. When he got into a fight at a bar in May of that year, they did a lot of damage to him. I went to see him at the hospital, but they told me he was in tough shape and maybe wouldn't be able to recognize me. When I tried to leave they asked me about health insurance, and how was I related. I told them I was his nephew, but I would be sure to get his son in touch just as soon as he got back from a trip to Guatemala. I even gave them Dad's old cell phone number. I saw in the paper that Dad died just three days later. I don't know where they buried him.

I was making enough money by then to easily keep up the rent on the trailer. I don't think anyone realized I was there on my own. Or if they did, they didn't care. When Mr. Thackery, the landlord, came by in his beat up Caddy for rent on the first of the month I'd hand him an envelope filled with cash and he was happy. After I turned eighteen in October that year, I could sign legal documents and things got a lot easier to deal with. I could afford better housing by then, and a new car, and lots of classy clothes. Maybe I went a little bit wild for a few weeks, but then Xavier let me know that people were noticing my new life style and that might not be a good thing. So I got smart and toned it down. Just to make people less nervous. Xavier told me later that I had done a smart thing.

When January came around and Mr. Thackery came by to collect his rent I told him that I was moving out so that would be the last rent he'd get for the trailer. He looked depressed at first, but then brightened up.

"You know kid, you and your dad are the last ones here. I've been thinking about getting rid of this place. It never will turn into a good income property; it's in the wrong location. Now that I don't have to evict you two before I can sell it I think it's time to unload. I'm going to put it up for sale today."

"What are you going to ask for it, Mr. Thackery?"

"It's a half-acre of filled-in swamp land to be honest, and I don't think I can get more than twenty thousand for it."

For some reason, the idea of this piece of land and the trailer being sold seemed to me to be something that would destroy my few good memories of Dad. Sure, he had been rough on me the last few years, but he tried to keep me safe. He had been my family after all.

"I'll give you ten thousand for it, Mr. Thackery.

"You? Where are you going to get that kind of money?"

"Oh, well Dad came into some money lately and that's why we're moving. But, he always thought that this place could be turned into something good and he was even talking about asking you to sell it. So maybe time is ripe now for both, I mean all of us."

"You can speak for your Dad?"

"Sure. He said that since I've trained to be an accountant it was time for me to take over finances. He said the thought of handling all our money made him nervous. I think he will be very happy to agree to buy this place."

"Shoot, just think of that! Your Dad must have had a run of good luck alright. Come to think of it, I haven't seen him for months. How's he doing?"

"Oh, just fine. Now that he's earned it he moved to a place where it's nice and warm all year long."  
"That's wonderful! Tell him that if he can come up with fifteen thousand he has a deal."

After a bit more haggling we settled on twelve-five, and signed the papers three weeks afterward.

They let me graduate with my class the next June. I put the diploma in a frame and hung it on the wall in my new condo where everyone could see it. That might be the only thing I've ever done that normal people would be proud of. But, a week later Xavier and a couple of his buddies came by for a drink and had a laugh at it. I took it down the next day and put it in that box up on the shelf with my Mom's brush, the Power Ranger, the flat football, the busted off side view mirror, and the two line obituary for my Dad that was in the paper.

After graduation, the time I spent with the Birthday Club guys trailed off because I had a lot more things come up and it had turned out that I was pretty good at running subcontractors. I used the old trailer as my office because I didn't want my business interests to be associated with my condo. Dad would have been proud of me for taking advantage of my abilities and getting ahead. At least I thought he would.

I heard about Kurt joining up, and thought he was an idiot. Who the hell wants to get shot at on purpose? The next time I heard anything about him it was after he came home with more problems than anybody should have to put up with. I didn't have a whole lot of sympathy; he did it to himself, right?

Not too long after Kurt shipped out Kid and Angie threw a going away party for themselves. I always knew that they would wind up together. I still had a crush on Angie, but even though I had lots of creds by then I knew I would never have any chance at impressing her. When I heard what Kid was going to study, I had to have a quiet laugh. Criminal law! Boy, I could tell him a thing or two already, and I was still young!

Angie wanted to be an anthropologist, whatever the hell that was. Some science about dead stuff maybe? I always knew she was smart. What a waste though, I bet she'd never make a tenth of what I was pulling down at age nineteen.

CC surprised me. I had him pegged to go to college and maybe become a professor. Instead he gets a nine-to-five at a hardware store and looks to settle in for a long boring life. I thought about maybe giving him a little hand now and then. He had always been friendly with me and went out of his way to help me study when I still was interested in that. He'd been really patient, and would explain stuff time after time until I told him to quit because I'd never get the hang of it. Then the next week on a new subject he'd try again. Maybe that's why I thought he'd wind up teaching. He seemed to be cut out for it. Anyway, I tried to explain how I could help him out now and then, but it was like talking to a wall. He just didn't understand, and I sure wasn't going to spell it out in detail. Maybe if the time ever comes a little anonymous assistance wouldn't be refused?

NOW

CC

Here I sit, three years out of High School and still wondering what I am going to do with my life. I do get tired of mixing paint and cutting glass, and sometimes it seems that I would make a good case study in arrested development at the moment of post-adolescence. I still get the occasional pimple, and I still go by some silly nickname rather than Chris. Trouble is, I still don't see any way forward.

Mom and Dad pulled up stakes and left town for a condo in Florida last year, and I am still living in my childhood home paying rent to my parents so they can buy Pena Coladas. When I went to visit them over the Holidays, I had to go through a gate that had a sign saying "No Children Allowed". Apparently, to them I am old enough to not be called a child but not old enough to have kids, or maybe they just don't care.

I never made any new friends after high school, and maybe that's part of why I feel so out of the loop. The friends I do have are pretty much unavailable most of the time. Kurt lives in his private hell, and I don't know what to do when I'm around him. He won't get any help, and I think it's getting worse. I've read all about PTSD and what he's got fits right in. Sometimes I'm afraid for him.

Angelina and Billy, enough of silly nicknames, are extremely happy with each other, live far away, and have no time for old friends what with classes and work. I love them both and wish them well, but as far as my day to day existence goes they might as well be on Mars.

Then there is Fred. He thinks I am unaware of what he does and what he is. I might not have a clue about how to live my life, but I am not stupid. His awkward offer to help me out with money or with some unspecified assistance made me cringe, but I hope I left him thinking that I didn't know what he was talking about. Truth is, he frightens me almost as much as Kurt. I can see him going haywire with very little prompting, and I don't want to be anywhere nearby when that happens.

I don't know what set me off on this particular tangent. Maybe it was the call from Billy asking if I knew how to contact Fred. He wouldn't say what it was all about, but at the end I promised that I'd try to get him a number. I think maybe I regret doing that, but I don't know why I feel that way. Well, a promise is a promise.

After work I set out to find Fred in one of his usual haunts. For some reason he was still partial to the arcade where we spent all our free time as kids so that's the first place I tried. I wandered around through the machines trying to spot him with no luck. The attendant looked familiar so I asked her if she'd seen Fred yet today.

"Fred? Do you mean that loud, short, skinny guy with the hairline mustache?"

She had his description down to a T, and I nodded yes.

"Nah. Not yet, but he usually comes by when high school lets out and kids come in. He gives me the creeps. What do you want with him? You a cop or something?"

"No, oh no. Nothing like that; I, ah, need to ask him a question. Look, if you see him, will you tell him that Chris, I mean CC, needs to talk to him?"

"Ask him a question? Yeah, I'll bet. Maybe I will maybe I won't, it depends on how my memory is at the moment."

I looked at the name tag on her blouse. It said Clara, and had a happy face.

"Clara,' I said beginning to get the hint, "sorry to hear about your early onset memory loss. Perhaps this small contribution to your health care will improve it."

She looked at the proffered five dollar bill, and then looked at me like I was offering an insult.

I got the message even quicker this time and dug out another bill, this time a twenty, which she immediately took and stuffed down her pants pocket. Regretting the loss of my planned dinner out that night I turned to leave.

"Hey Rockefeller, does he know how to get in touch with you?"

"Yeah, just tell him CC stopped by and will be at the house."

Later that afternoon I was poking around in the pantry in hopes of finding a replacement for the pizza that had been planned. I was contemplating a can of beans when a code-like knock on the front door echoed along the adjacent hallway.

"Hi Fred," I reluctantly greeted him and opened the door wider, "come on in. You are looking well."

"CC, Buddy, good to see you again!"

He hadn't changed much in the two years since our last meeting, except perhaps that his clothes looked more upscale. Not that I'd know the difference between something from Kmart and something from Brooks Brothers. Still the same slightly obnoxious oiliness though.

"Fred, you have certainly not come down in the world from what I can see. How have you been?"

"Good, no great! Life's great CC, you should reach out and take a slice!"

"Come on in and have a seat," it strained my resolve to remain at arm's length, but I forced myself to give him little hug. "Can I get you something?" I hoped he didn't want more than water.

"No, that's alright my friend. I just came from lunch at Trovia's. Let me tell you, that mini filet they serve at lunchtime is wonderful!"

My stomach growled. I hoped he didn't notice.

"So, CC, what's up? Leaving messages for me to come have a sit-down is a bit out of character, if you don't mind my saying. Has something gone wrong? How can I help?"

"Fred, I don't think it's a big deal, but Billy, I mean Kid, called me last night and asked if I could find out how to get into contact with you."

"Yeah?" I caught a look of uncertainty flash across his face, but an instant later the smile was back. "So how's our boy doing? Still working on the legal-beagle degree? And how's Angie? I sure do miss seeing her around, let me tell you! What a gal!"

"Kid said they were doing well. He's taking classes in law now and seems to be stoked about it. He didn't say anything about Angie, but no news is good news."

"Oh, well, OK then. Why does he need to talk to me, did he say?"

"I didn't think it was any of my business so I didn't ask. I think it might have to do with his studies though; he did kind of transition from talking about classes to asking about you. But, I don't know for sure. Do you want to give me your number so I can pass it along to him?"

"Huh? Don't you have my number?" He looked a little hurt.

"I thought I had it, but when I called it yesterday, some guy answered who said no one by that name lived there."

"Oh, wait a minute. You must still have the number from back in high school, right?"

"Sure. You've never given me a different one."

"Wow! I never even thought about that, sorry man! That number was my old man's number. I guess after he died they gave the number to someone new."

I felt like crap. I don't think I ever had a thought that he might actually have a father.

"Sorry Fred. I didn't think of that. When did you lose your father? Recently?"

"No, it's been a couple of years now, and I've gotten back to living. I was having a tough time for a while there, but you have to pick it up and move on. You know?"

"I'm glad things are better for you, I feel bad for not being there when you needed a friend."

Now I really felt bad, first he didn't have a father and now it came across that his father wasn't worth grieving over.

"CC, don't you worry about it. It was a long time ago and I'm back on top of the world again. Say, tell you what, I'll save you long distance charges and give Kid a call myself. How about that?"

"Oh? Well, sure, I mean OK; he'd probably like hearing from you again anyway. Have you got his number?"

"Of course I do! I always keep contact info for all my friends. Who wouldn't? Just in case, obviously it's easy not to be in the loop about telephone number changes. Maybe you could give it to me anyhow, just to check I've got the right one?"

I wrote Billy's number on a scrap of paper and handed it over, feeling like I'd just been dressed down, and deserving every word.

"Thanks CC, I'll give old Kid a call as soon as I get home. What time you got? Never mind I'll just check the old smart phone here. Oh wow, look at that! I'm already 5 minutes late for the dental appointment. Good thing it's just a mile down the road. Look here CC, we have just got to get together for a beer or coffee, or whatever. Soon, right? I'll give you a call."

When the door closed, I felt like I'd just been brushed off. I still felt like crap. Fred might not be what I consider a good friend, but obviously I'd made him feel bad. As I walked back to the pantry I resolved to be kinder to him in the future. The beans were still there, and the five bucks I had left in my wallet wouldn't come close to buying a mini filet, so the choice was clear.

Fortunately, the next day was payday.

When Sam handed me my paycheck, he smiled and said "Chris, that's the last check you'll ever get from me!"

I damn near panicked, and he laughed at the expression that must have been on my face.

"I'm retiring next week Chris. I put in a good word for you with the owner, and I'm pretty sure you are going to be promoted to manager the day after I leave. What do you think of that?"

I reminded myself that sometimes I didn't say the best things on the spur of the moment, and swallowed the first words that had come to mind.

"Sam congratulations! I had no idea you were thinking of retiring. You don't look old enough to get by with that."

"Quit your bullshit Chris. I look in the mirror every morning and the sight has been getting pretty fuzzy the last few years what with all the extra folds and age spots. No sir, after thirty years of giving DYI advice I'm going to take some myself and take the Missus on a permanent vacation to someplace sunny and warm."

"Well, I'll miss you Sam. I hope I've learned enough from you not to make a total mess of the place. Thank you very much for the recommendation."

True to his word, the owner passed the baton to me the following week, and I soon learned that running a hardware store did not come easy. I'd had no idea of all the extra work it entailed, and was swamped with new duties for several weeks; barely having time to get six hours of sleep at night. I'd intended to give Billy a call to ask if Fred had phoned him as he said he would, but that completely slipped my mind.

It was mid-August, and I had a passing thought of planning a get together with Kurt for our birthdays. Maybe I could talk Billy and Angelina into traveling down for the day. I thought about Fred then, but even with my faux pas at our last meeting I was hesitant to include him in the planning. Then I started feeling guilty again, and decided that I would give him a call as well. It struck me as a huge coincidence when the phone rang and the caller ID showed Mrs. Kelly's name. I immediately thought she must have something similar in mind.

"Hello, Angelina's Mom, how are you today?"

"Oh, Chris I'm so glad you are home. I've had terrible news and you've been like a friend to me and Angelina for so long that I just had to call you."

"What's happened?" I felt my stomach drop, and wasn't sure I wanted to hear what she might say. If something had happened to Angelina, Mrs. Kelly and Billy would be devastated. Me too, for that matter.

"Chris, Billy is dead. I only now hung up after a call from Angelina, and she was so distraught I couldn't understand anything about what happened except that. I have to go to her. Would you come with me Chris? Please? I don't know if I can drive."

"Of course I will. I have to make sure that the store is covered, but I will be there as soon as I can. We'll take my truck, so don't you worry about driving anywhere."

My head was spinning as I hung up. What she had said didn't seem to make any sense to me. How could it be? I took a deep breath and called Helen, my Assistant Manager, and asked if she would handle things for a day or two. As I got off the phone, it occurred to me that Kurt had to be told. He might be locked away in some sort of prison of his mind, but Angelina and Billy were his friends, too. He would want to know. He finally answered after a dozen rings, but I could barely understand his greeting. It sounded like something between a grunt and a moan. I had a sudden thought that maybe I wasn't doing the right thing, but I pressed on. After I'd said the words there was silence on the line, and I wondered if Kurt had dropped the phone.

Then he said, "I'm coming with you."

I had my doubts that would be a good thing, but I wasn't about to try talking him out of it. I told him that I would pick up Mrs. Kelly first and then come by for him. It would be a little crowded in the truck since it was one of the smaller models, but there wasn't any other option. I thought Kurt might not have a car any longer.

The drive was going to take more than an hour at that time of day. Mrs. Kelly obviously had been crying, and her face was red and puffy when I picked her up. When I told her that Kurt was coming along, she didn't respond at first, but then nodded her head as if to say that was right.

We three were packed in tightly with very little wiggle room, so it wasn't like we could sit there in silence and ignore each other. Mrs. Kelly was the first to say anything after an half hour on the road.

"I've been thinking about what Angelina said when she called. As I told you Chris, I couldn't understand much of it, but I'm almost certain she said the words 'car' and 'sidewalk'. Could that be right? Was it an accident that killed him? Oh, my poor Baby. She loved him so much."

Kurt didn't say anything, but I could see his expression change from a neutral blank stare to something resembling sorrow. He didn't need more trouble in his life, and I started to regret my decision to call him with the news. But then, Mrs. Kelly spoke again.

"Oh, Kurt, she said your name too, but I don't know how it fit with anything. It was just before we said goodbye, after I told her I was coming up to be with her. After I told her I would call Chris and ask him to come up with me. I think that maybe she wanted you to be there, too."

The expression of his face softened, and I thought that he might cry. Instead, he shook his head and reached over to hold Mrs. Kelly's hand. It was the first time in years I had seen him behave as though he was not a robot.

We stopped a few blocks away from campus to get directions to Angelina's apartment and decided to pick up some food and drinks. It was going to be a long, tough night, and at some point we would need to do something besides grieve.

We arrived at Angelina's place around four or so in the afternoon. The apartment was on the second floor and the door was about in the middle of an exterior walkway. I knocked on the door, but it took a long time before we heard footsteps within. As the door slowly opened we could see Angelina's face was streaked and puffy. Her hair was tangled and the robe she had on was buttoned up wrong so that the collar and hem were hiked up on one side. As soon as she saw her mother she grabbed her around the neck and hung on like a child. She didn't make a sound, but I could see her whole body shudder.

Mrs. Kelly guided her back inside and sat her on a sofa against the wall. Angelina finally looked up and saw Kurt and I standing behind her mother. She held out her hands and we both came to her, but when she stood up her arms went around Kurt's neck and he responded by holding her tightly. I felt like a third wheel at that point and looked around to see if I could do something useful. She must have noticed me then because she broke loose from Kurt and came to give me a hug. It was nothing like the one she gave Kurt, but then I'd always known that she felt a little closer to Kurt than to me.

There followed lots of tears; and it was one of the most difficult times I'd ever been through. I guess in all my life no one ever meant as much to me as Billy meant to Angelina so a lot of it seemed surrealistic in a way. I wanted to know more about what had happened, but apparently Angelina was not ready to talk about it yet. After a while, I got up and went to the small kitchen to make up some plates of food and put some ice out for drinks. I didn't know what else to do. Mrs. Kelly must have followed me into the kitchen, and I was caught by surprise when she spoke to me in a soft voice.

"Chris, I know that Angelina did not mean to slight you, but I think you know that she always thought of you more as a brother. You shouldn't think that she likes you less than Kurt, it's just in a different way. You have always been the smart one, the wise one, the one who thinks of things that other people overlook. All four of you made up a kind of family and I don't want you to feel that you don't belong here. You do. Before too long, Angelina will get back to being our Angelina and you'll feel the togetherness again. I know you know that, but I wanted to give you my own big hug for being who you are."

And, she did.

It wasn't until the next morning that Angelina showed signs of coming to grip with everything. She was nowhere near being the girl I'd spent so many years hanging out with, but it was better. The three of us had taken turns sitting with her during the night and it was only at an early morning hour when she finally fell into an exhausted sleep. We tucked her into her bed, and her mother lay down beside her. Kurt and I shared a kind of companionable silence in the living room afterward, but eventually even he laid his head back and dozed restlessly. I'd always been able to go a long time without sleep, so I made a pot of coffee and turned on the small TV in the kitchen to watch an old black and white movie on cable.

Kurt was the first one to join me in the kitchen. He poured a cup of coffee and sat at the counter next to the TV. Mrs. Kelly was next. She looked a lot better than last night, and I thought she must have spent a little time in the master bathroom getting ready to face the day. Finally, sometime between ten and eleven, we heard noises coming from the bedroom, and Mrs. Kelly went to have a look. She came back a half hour later with Angelina. They were holding hands.

The story came out in bits and pieces, and every detail seemed to cause her pain in telling. In fact, she didn't know everything since she and Billy had been at different places when it happened.

The officer who came to her door that day, apparently kept the details to a minimum. All she knew was that Billy had been walking toward campus on the sidewalk that led from off-campus parking to the front gate when something had caused a car to jump the curb and pin him against the wall of a building. The officer said that he had died instantly because his spine had been snapped at the base of his neck. He said that it was hit and run and they did not have a lead on the driver as yet.

Then the officer had asked about next of kin and she said they weren't married yet. He said that the rest of the details would be given to his family, and did she know how to contact them. She had been pretty much in shock by then, and had given the officer an address book with Billy's parents' address without complaint. Mr. and Mrs. Morton had moved to California two years before, and she wasn't sure if the authorities had gotten hold of them or not.

I thought maybe it was a good thing she had not been with him at the time. She had been spared seeing him die, and maybe even avoided being injured at the same time. That was kind of strange when I thought about it. They almost always went everywhere together, and I knew they made a habit of walking to class together even if they were destined for opposite ends of the campus. I wondered what had kept them apart that morning. I was tempted to ask, but one look at her face let me know that that sort of question would raise a whole new episode of crying. I glanced at Kurt and saw that he was staring at his hands and his eyebrows were arched like maybe he had questions as well.

The phone rang a few minutes later and it turned out to be a call from Billy's father. Mrs. Kelly had answered the call, and kept her voice low explaining what she knew and asking what we could do to help. After hanging up she told us that Mr. and Mrs. Morton planned to fly out that afternoon, and would take over planning for the funeral. I wondered how Angelina would take being cut out of the process, but I hoped that she let them do it without complaint. She didn't need to take on that part of grieving also. She should let his parents do their part—their duty.

The three days that followed weren't much easier to get through. I had to go back to town to handle things at the store, including that week's payroll. Mrs. Kelly and Kurt stayed on at the apartment, and I think they may have helped out when Billy's parents got to town. I wondered if I should have stayed there, too. I finally had to admit to myself that maybe I didn't have the stuff for that. I was just a friend when it came down to it, and not really family.

The funeral was held at a cemetery near the U of M main campus on a sunny day at the start of the week when we would celebrate our birthdays. Mr. and Mrs. Morton were in charge of the proceedings and it was clear that they really didn't want any help from anyone. I wondered what that was all about. Didn't they think Angelina and her mother had emotional investment in Billy's life? It was clear that some sort of rift had opened between the two families, and I thought that maybe there was some history behind it, but I didn't know what. Kurt made it through the proceedings with a kind of puzzled expression on his face. I thought that he didn't understand what was going on either.

Afterward, Angelina and her mother started back to Mrs. Kelly's house in a rental, while Kurt and I said we'd collect stuff from the apartment and bring it to Mrs. Kelly's house. Angelina had decided that she couldn't go on with school that semester and wanted to leave the apartment for good, not even collecting the cleaning deposit. Mr. and Mrs. Morton met us at the apartment and wanted to look over Billy's things. They wound up taking a few items they said they had given him and left all his clothes, books, and toiletries. They took the framed photo showing Billy in sunglasses, and dressed in a tennis outfit with a racquet in his hand. They left the photo where Billy and Angelina stood in front of a rocky outcrop, holding hands and smiling at each other. When they left the apartment, they didn't even say "goodbye".

It didn't take long to close out the apartment. Neither one of them had that much. The kitchen had hardly any food and there were no house plants. I thought that they had been truly starving students. Kurt put the box he was carrying in the back of my truck along with the bags of clothes and boxes of textbooks; and we set off to drive home.

I managed to think less and less about Billy's death over the next few weeks. No one had any real interest in celebrating birthdays on the 14th and the day passed without so much as a cake. That seemed right to me. We shouldn't have a birthday if Billy couldn't. I saw Angelina once in a while, but she never seemed to get any better. Her face was always puffy and swollen, her eyes red and her hair in a tangle. She used to like to dress in different ways depending on the weather, we used to kid her about the galoshes and plastic coat on rainy days, but now it was always torn blue jeans and oversized sweaters. Mrs. Kelly still worked two jobs and wasn't home very often just like always, but when we did see her she wore a worried expression that was totally out of character.

The "we" was Kurt and I. We had spent more time together after the funeral, and he had started to talk more than he'd done in years. I even learned a little about that really bad day in Iraq. I knew he held back some of it, but part of it came out in disjointed sentences and I got the general idea. We had dropped everything we'd collected at the apartment off at the Kelly house, but Kurt had kept that last box he had carried out before we left. I asked him about it, but he said that he had some questions and that maybe the box held some answers. I didn't know what he meant then, but decided he would tell me when he thought it was time. Whenever I went to his place, that box was sitting on a table, top off and papers scattered around. It looked to me to be school notes, and I lost interest.

I realized some months later that I hadn't seen or heard anything of Fred in all that time and wondered if Kurt had let him know about Billy. When I asked him, he looked kind of pensive before answering that no, he hadn't seen Fred since long before that day when Billy died. That wasn't too peculiar. Kurt was the only one of us who had resisted letting Fred into our group and seemed to resent his presence every time he showed up. I had always put it down to a clash of totally different personalities. You couldn't find two more different people if you tried.

Spring finally arrived the year after Billy's death and things almost seemed on the mend with Angelina. She came out of the house once in a while and joined Kurt and I when we goofed off at the park or went to a movie. She even started to peruse the want ads for a job. It was almost like old times.

Shortly after that, I showed up at Kurt's place without notice thinking that we could grab a beer and go watch the local farm team practice baseball. When he answered the door, I was surprised to see Angelina behind him sitting on his couch. I didn't know what to make of it and Kurt wasn't any help at all. He made some lame comment about me not calling before I showed up and said he and Angelina had made some plans for the evening. I know when to take a hint, so I gave a wave to Angelina and turned to go. He must have been feeling bad about it because he followed me out and tried to tell me that his being with Angelina didn't mean anything. They just had this thing they had to do.

I told him "Sure!" and drove off in a semi-huff.

What the hell, if they wanted to play house and leave me out of it that was their right. Why should I care?

I stayed pissed off for nearly two months. Every time I thought of Kurt and Angelina together a scenario played out in my head where those two totally fractured people being together brought on all sorts of disasters. Maybe they got off on sharing troubles? Maybe they like sharing pain? I was certain that nothing good was going to come out of it. I thought I should meet up with Mrs. Kelly and find out what she thought about it. Those two being together can't be something she could be happy about, could it? I never did that. Maybe I had it all wrong. They were just friends after all. Friends did that, help out each other when things go wrong.

Yeah, so what was wrong with me then? Wasn't I worth asking for help? All those years of being best buddies, and what? Left out of it. That's what I was, left out of it. I stopped feeling pissed off and started feeling sorry for myself.

I don't know, it was maybe six months later and I hadn't thought about Angelina or Kurt or Billy for months. Everything I did circulated around the hardware store and dealing with the loss of business that a new big box a half-mile away had caused. Things were looking grim, and the owner was starting to talk about some not so good consequences. Since I had no expenses except for food and rent most of my wages went directly into savings so I thought that I was in not bad shape if worse came to worse, but the other employees might not be in a good position to weather a layoff. I had a talk with them and told them that if they wanted to quit for a more stable job maybe they shouldn't delay. Probably not the proper thing for a manager to do, but I thought it was the ethical thing to do. The owner found out about it and decided he needed a manager with greater loyalty. I had a lot of spare time after that.

Weeks later the newspaper had yielded all it could before noon, help wanted first, Section A second, Comics and puzzles third, when there was a knock on the door. Thinking that a visit from itinerant Mormons intent on salvation might be more interesting than another TV game show, I answered it.

"Fred!" I'd forgotten he even existed, but the sight of a familiar face was somehow pleasant. "What are you up to? It's been a while!"

"Hi CC," he said, "You're looking well, too. I tried to find you at the hardware store, but it was closed and the going out of business sign was hanging by a corner. I hoped you'd still be living here and took a chance."

"Yeah, I haven't been there for months, and I've found out what the word recession means. You want to come in?"

"Sure, Man, I need to talk to you."

That sounded slightly ominous, and it came back to me what Fred had been like. Hoping that I hadn't invited disaster into my house I sat him in the living room and got him a cup of coffee.

"OK Fred, I'm listening. What do you have to tell me?"

"CC I'll get right to it. I need a place to hang out for a couple of weeks. I've, uh, gotten into a bit of a pickle, and I don't want to be seen around my usual places."

Disaster seemed to hover even closer than before. Fred was on edge, and his eyes darted around the room as if looking for a place to hide.

"Why is that, Fred?"

"Look, I'll start at the beginning of this thing so that you understand. You remember that dog that got killed when we were still in high school?"

"Sure, who could forget?"

"OK, then you remember the car that we saw do it? A red Camero, and Xavier was driving."

"Well, I remember the color at any rate. The Camero and Xavier are parts I'm not sure I remember. So, that was a long time ago, why is it important now?"

"I'll get to that CC, let me tell it my way."

"Sure, go ahead."

"Just before Billy got killed in that hit and run, I talked to him on the phone."

"I remember giving you the number. I wasn't certain you knew that he'd been killed. I kind of messed up not telling you, and I didn't know if Angelina or Kurt had called you about it."

"Would have been nice if you'd let me know about it," he said. "That would definitely made things turn out better than they did."

"How do you mean?"

"Look, I'll get to it, OK? Just let me talk. He wanted to talk to me about his school work. At the time I thought that was a funny thing for him to want from me, but later I understood. He was looking into a cold case for one of his lawyer classes. Somehow he got hold of a police report about Philippe Gonzalez's death. You remember that?"

"No, who was Philippe Gonzalez?"

"Only the biggest drug dealer in the state at the time. Until someone decided he was in the way of the competition, that is. Then he got himself killed, stuffed into the trunk of a car, and set on fire. The car was his. It was a red Camero, and one of the things in the police report was the VIN. So, when Kid, I mean Billy, looked at the information and traced the VIN to manufacturer's records and found out it belonged to a red Camero something must have clicked, and he remembered that day when the dog died. The police report said that Philippe had died at about the same time, but couldn't be certain about the date of death because so little was left of the body. He thought he remembered my saying who was driving, but couldn't remember. That's why he wanted to talk to me."

"Oh, yeah?" Disaster had grown wings and was flying overhead by then. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing! Am I nuts? Did I want him snooping around and telling people that I was a witness to a killing. Of a big time drug lord? Hell no, I didn't tell him. But, somehow he found out. How much do you know about that hit and run that killed Billy?"

"Well, not much really. Angelina never talked about it, and the police gave anything they had on it to Billy's parents. They didn't share much of anything with Angelina so far as I know."

"Yeah, I thought that might be the case. They never found the driver of the car that hit Billy. And, the car had been stolen that same morning."

"Jeeze, how do you know all that?"

"Kurt told me."

"Kurt! How did he find out?"

"He and Angelina have been working on that stuff ever since Billy was killed. They either dug it out of the police reports, or maybe talked Billy's parents into telling them. I don't know about that."

Too much information all at once. I felt my head sort of spin and had to catch my breath.

"When did he tell you that, Fred?"

"Last week, the day before he was killed."

I could feel blood pounding in my ears. I stared at Fred like he was mad, and spouting nonsense.

"Kurt? Dead? How? Why? Wait a minute--he and Angelina might have had something going, how--?"

"She's OK. At least up until last night she was OK. That's the last time I talked to her mother."

"Fred what the Hell is going on? How does what happened years ago turn into Kurt being dead last week? I don't understand."

"Yeah, it was tough to figure out, but I think I know what happened with Kid, I mean Billy. After you told me Billy wanted to talk to me I called his number. He didn't answer and it went to voice mail. I left my number and told him to call me back. Trouble was that Xavier was over my place that night, and while I was answering nature he took a call. I think it was Billy. When I came out of the bathroom, Xavier was gone and my phone was gone with him. I think that one of two things happened. Either Xavier stole a car and went after Billy the next morning, or he had one of his buddies do it. The next time I saw Xavier he told me that he had that problem taken care of. I didn't know what he meant at the time."

"That's kind of speculative, isn't it?"

"Well sure, I mean I can't prove any of it, but you don't know people like Xavier and what they are capable of doing."

"Maybe," I answered, "but even if that part is true, what has happened lately to get you all excited?"

"Look, Xavier didn't do Philippe. I know that because once while we were drinking he let out that he knew who had done it and was lucky because the guy who had done it paid him to double cross Philippe by leading him into a trap. He didn't actually kill Philippe, but he was tied in close enough to not want his new boss arrested for the murder. Besides, he said he was happy because the new guy paid him better than Philippe ever had.

"The problem is that Xavier got wind of a little job I'm working up with the Boss that cuts Xavier out of the action, believe me you don't want or even need to know the Boss's name--the dumber you are the better. Once Xavier has been taken care of, maybe permanently if you know what I mean, I can come out of hiding and get on with my life. The boss says he'll take care of Xavier, but I should lay low for a couple of weeks until I get an all clear."

"I'm confused, what about Kurt?"

"Yeah, well, that part is not so good. Remember I told you that Xavier had my phone for a while? Well, I think he cloned my contacts list, and after he found out about the new deal and that I was not around he started calling numbers looking for me. Kurt must have answered one of his calls and said something that made Xavier nervous."

"Damn Fred, how about Angelina or her mother, how about me?"

"Angelina never gave me her number, and I didn't have one for her mother either. I had the old number from when you lived with your parents and the hardware store number, but not the one you have now. So none of you are even on my contacts. That's why I figure I'll be safe if you let me stay here for a while."

"I'm glad you feel safe, Fred, but I'm not so sure I see any good reason to get involved in all this."

"CC, I think you might come to think of it as being in your best interests. I mean if I get caught by Xavier, he's likely to want to know who my friends are. I'm not a brave guy CC, it might be that your name would come out even if I didn't want it to."

"Why don't you go to the police and tell them what you know. Wouldn't they give you protection?"

"CC, look I haven't killed anybody, but I've got enough stuff to answer for that's almost as bad. Me going to the cops would not be a good idea. I could get sent up for a dozen different things and once you're in the lockup all sorts of nasty things can happen to you. No, sorry, but no. I've got to play it my way."

"So, you're asking me to put up a wanted felon. How about me Fred? Wouldn't that make me an accessory? This could ruin my life, and I haven't done a damned thing."

"Nah, you got nothing to worry about. You have no idea what I might or might not have done. I'm just a buddy in trouble and you wanted to help out. Sure if things go really wrong they might think you're a dumb bastard, but that's about the worst that could happen."

"Great! How am I ever going to find work after that?"

"CC, you worry too much. Every thing's going to go just right, and you aren't ever going to be in any trouble. In fact, I don't want this to cost you even a dime. Why don't you give me your bank account number and I'll put some money into it to take care of anything you spend because of me? You know, beer, food, flicks, whatever."

I took my checkbook out of the side table where I kept it and almost handed it over before I started thinking about consequences. Did I really want to have a record of getting money from a known criminal? Nah! I put it back in the drawer.

"Fred, why don't you just keep track of it while you're here, and give me the cash when you are able. There isn't any rush."

"Oh? Well if that's the way you want it. Sure."

I didn't have a whole lot to say after that. Except that I realized I had just agreed to his staying with me, without actually saying so. What he said about me being in the clear sounded alright, maybe. I was still uncertain about what my exposure would be. I probably wasn't thinking straight at the moment. I'd just heard about another friend being killed; and Angelina maybe in trouble too. I needed to spend some time thinking about all this before acting on the wrong impulse. It probably wouldn't cause me any trouble if I just had him in as a house guest, and he didn't add to his list of offences during his stay.

I went out to lay in some extra food and drink, and Fred asked me to pick up a couple of things for him at the department store. He gave me all the cash he had on hand. It was less than $50 and I was a little surprised that a big time crook like him didn't have more in his wallet. Maybe crime doesn't pay that well after all.

In the parking lot of the grocery store I sat in the car and called Mrs. Kelly. I needed to hear that Angelina was OK, but there was no answer. No voice mail either. I was tempted to go over to her house and check up on them, but suddenly felt like I might bring along unwanted attention. No reason to think anyone was watching me, but I still felt apprehensive. I'd call again later.

I had a lot of trouble sleeping that night. All those noises were probably out there every night, but seemed to be especially loud as I lay there counting cracks in the ceiling. I must have drifted off at some point because in was full daylight when Fred knocked on my bedroom door and asked if there was anything for breakfast.

That sort of unease lasted for another two nights, but then I must have come to terms with the situation because I slept the night through and didn't wake up until nearly nine o'clock. My head felt a little heavy, something like a hangover. I'd had a little more than usual to drink at dinner the night before since Fred had insisted on opening a bottle of chardonnay to go with the fried chicken. I must be seriously out of condition to let a half bottle get to me that way.

I got up and dressed, expecting any minute to hear Fred complaining that breakfast wasn't ready yet. I'm not sure how or when I became his personal servant; it was certainly nothing I'd signed up to do. I had coffee ready and was about to start some scrambled eggs when I realized that Fred still had not made an appearance. Feeling apprehensive I checked his bedroom. Not there, but the bed was half made and I thought he must have spent the night. The few things he owned were scattered around the room, and a comic book he'd been reading lay opened and text-down on the bedside table. I supposed that he decided to go out for a walk even if he hadn't said the all clear had sounded. Maybe he was suffering cabin fever and needed a little air.

Back in the kitchen I gave up on the idea of scrambled eggs and opted for cereal. That almost didn't work as I couldn't see the box of corn flakes in its usual place. Then I spotted it over in the instant potato section. I felt annoyed that Fred couldn't do a simple thing like putting the box away where it belonged. OK maybe I'm a little compulsive about little things, but it's not like it's a major personality flaw. I poured a helping into a bowl and put the box back where it belonged. It wouldn't fit and stuck out over the edge of the shelf by a couple of inches. Maybe there was something in the way; and I cut Fred a little slack because leaving the box hanging over the edge would have been even more unacceptable according to my housekeeping habits.

I pulled the cereal box out and looked to see what was in the way. Something wrapped in a kitchen towel. It was heavy as I lifted it off the shelf, and hard. The shape was disturbing for some reason, and I suddenly had a feeling of dread. Carefully unwrapping the towel I found my fears confirmed. It was a revolver. Leaving it in the towel I turned it over and saw that it was grey metal with a brown grip made of plastic. The ends of the revolving cylinder were open and brass colored cartridges could be seen. Loaded and apparently ready to fire. My hand started shaking, and I wrapped the thing up again imagining it going off by mistake.

I didn't know the first thing about guns and how to use them. The only time I'd ever shot one was when I was a kid and went target shooting with Dad. That had been a rifle with a telescopic sight. When Dad told me to fire it at a can on a log the recoil put the back of the telescopic sight into my eyebrow, cutting the skin. Dad had laughed and put a handkerchief over the wound and told me to hold it in place. That had been enough for me, and I hadn't touched a gun since. I still have that arc-shaped scar to remind me of why I don't like them.

Damn. Stop and think. This can't be here or anywhere else in the house. Get rid of it. Where? Trash can? Under a bush? Dig a hole? Hang on! There is a metal storage shed in the back yard, and it's sitting on a base of pavers. The shed was small enough for a single person to move, and only held a few garden tools and a gas powered mower. I went to check it out. Yeah this would work. I went back in for the revolver and came back to the shed. I pushed the top back until the whole thing was tilted to expose the pavers. They were arranged in a rectangle with an open dirt area in the middle. An assortment of crickets and pill bugs scrambled to get out of the sudden sunlight. Perfect. I put the towel-wrapped bundle down on the dirt and let the shed drop down over it. Fred was going to answer some serious questions before I let him have it back.

I waited almost three hours and still no sign of Fred. Panic was starting to set in. I had to do something. What did Fred's disappearance mean for me? How about Angelina? I'd called Mrs. Kelly's number every day since the first time and still had gotten no response. Maybe I needed to get off my butt and do something. I had a thought that seemed like a reasonable course of action so I got into the pickup and drove toward Mrs. Kelly's house a couple of blocks away.

The house looked deserted, windows closed and shades pulled down. What looked like a week's worth of newspapers were scattered over the lawn and the mailbox by the curb had mail spilling out the front. I rang the bell and then pounded on the door. No response at all, the dog didn't even bark like she usually did when you rang the bell. I tried to turn the door knob, but it was locked. One last knock on the door and I gave up. Feeling totally at a loss, I drove back to the house alternating between hoping and dreading that Fred had returned.

Instead, a black sedan was parked at the curb and two guys approached me as I left the pickup truck to go in by the kitchen door.

One of them held up a small folder and said, "Mr. Clark?"

I nodded my head and he continued, "I'm Detective Sinclair and this is Detective Harmon. We need to have a few words with you. May we come inside?"

I managed to stutter out a "Sure!"

I stood leaning against the kitchen counter and hoped to Hell that Fred hadn't returned while I was out.

"What can I do for you, Detective Sinclair?"

"We are investigating an incident that occurred four days ago. Where were you on the 5th of June, between five and eight at night, Mr. Clark?"

"That was Thursday. I was at home all day and all night on that date, Detective."

"Is there anyone who can confirm your location during that time?"

"Well, no. I live alone."

"No visitors?"

I felt myself sinking into a stream of lies. "No, no one."

"Do you own a gun, Mr. Clark?"

"What? No, I've never owned a gun."

"Do you know Kurt Dawson, Mr. Clark?"

"Kurt? Sure we've been friends since high school. Is he in trouble of some sort?"

"Perhaps you would like to have a seat Mr. Clark. I'm afraid we have bad news for you."

I tried to act surprised when they told me Kurt had reportedly been killed, and I think I pulled it off. I told them that Angelina had been seeing a lot of Kurt and asked if she had been notified. They looked at each other and the one called Harmon shook his head no. Then they asked for Angelina's contact information, and I gave them Mrs. Kelly's phone number and address. They got ready to leave and I was about to heave a sigh of relief, until I heard Sinclair's parting words.

"We will almost certainly need to have a few more words with you in the next few days. If you have any plans to leave town for any reason, please give us a call."

I watched through the window as the two of them got into the sedan and willed them to leave. Nothing happened for a few minutes, and I started feeling nervous. But then the guy in the passenger seat opened his window and put a light on top of the car's roof. With light flashing and siren blaring they pulled out into the street, made a U-turn and headed west.

I walked quickly to the spare room and found that Fred had not yet returned. He was going to have to leave, and I would tell him as soon as he got back. I thought about calling his cell to tell him not to come back, but then I remembered the revolver. He needed to get that thing away from me. I collected all the stuff he owned or used and put it in a plastic bag and stuffed it into a closet. Then I got a rag and started wiping every surface he could have touched. I went from room to room doing the same thing, to erase his presence.

I spent the rest of the day trying to concentrate on TV, and waiting for something to happen. Finally, at six I couldn't take it any longer. I collected the bag with Fred's stuff and drove it to the grocery where I shopped. I knew there was a Goodwill box there and I wanted Fred's stuff out of my house for good. Despite the fact that I could have used something stronger than beer by then I decided not to attract possible attention by shopping. I returned home immediately. I had a passing thought that this business was bringing out my criminal instincts.

I had barely finished breakfast the following morning when a knock at the front door announced the return of Sinclair and Harmon. This time they had company.

"Mr. Clark, here is a warrant that allows us to search your house and grounds. Please take a seat out of the way. We'll have a few more questions for you as well after we get this started."

All together there were six of them. They split up, one heading for the kitchen and the others spreading out into other rooms. I watched helplessly for a couple of minutes; then I sat down on the sofa and stared at the wall. Damn./

Ten minutes later Sinclair and Harmon stood in front of me with notebooks open and pens poised.

"Now then Mr. Clark, yesterday you stated that you did not own a gun. Is that still your claim?"

"Yes, of course."

"If we found a weapon in your possession that would not be a good thing. Are you certain?"

"Yes, I'm certain. I have never owned a gun of any sort."

"When was the last time you saw Kurt Dawson?"

"Probably four months ago, at his house. Angelina was there as well."

"How did you feel about Angelina and Kurt being together?"

"What do you mean? Was I jealous? No, of course not. There was never anything going on between Angelina and me."

"Not ever? How about in high school? Did you two ever date?"

"No, never. Kurt, Billy, Angelina and I always hung out together. We were friends all through the last three years of high school and stayed friends after graduation."

"Who is this Billy?"

"Billy Morton. He and Angelina were together for a couple of years after graduation. They actually went to college together. Until Billy was killed in an accident, that is."

Sinclair and Harmon exchanged a look, and Harmon left to go out the front door. About then the guy who had gone into the kitchen came back and shook his head at Sinclair.

"Why don't we adjourn to the kitchen Mr. Clark? Smitty is ready to get started in here."

The kitchen was pretty much intact, which belied the usual picture on TV shows where a search winds up looking like a typhoon went through. I saw dust on the fridge handle and oven controls, and wondered if it was fingerprint powder. I glanced at the open door of the pantry and saw that the corn flakes box was out of order again. Sinclair and I sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table, where he laid his notebook down.

"Don't suppose you'd have any coffee would you?"

"Coffee?" I didn't know whether to feel like a host or be put out. I decided that I wanted to keep on the guy's good side. "I haven't made any yet this morning, but it will just take a minute."

"Great. Thanks. We had to get an early start this morning and didn't have time to pick up a cup. Detective Harmon should be back in just a minute. We'll hold off on questions until he returns. Be a good time to fire up the coffee pot."

Maybe I should feel put out after all. I hoped he didn't ask for a Danish, too. I lost count of the spoonful's of coffee I put in the drip basket, but thought it was about right. I wasn't going to count it again, that might make him think I was nervous. I was. We sat in silence listening to the coffee maker hiss and sizzle. When it was done I managed to pour him a cup without spilling. I didn't take any myself. Pouring without spilling a second cup might be too much to ask.

"Ah, here he is now. What's the word Phil?"

"Billy Morton. Hit and run, car and driver never found. He died instantly according to the report. Possession of the body taken by the father, one Daniel Morton, of San Luis Obispo, California. Nothing new since the first report."

"Mr. Clark," said Detective Sinclair, "says he and Billy were good friends in high school. Was he questioned at the time of Billy's death?"

"No record of that."

"Pretty sloppy work back then. They should have talked to you about it. Did you have any information you could have given them at the time?"

"No. I only saw Billy and Angelina when they visited home on break from college. If I remember right, the last time I saw him was two or three months before he was killed."

"OK. Let's move on. When is the last time you saw Angelina or her mother?"

"Angelina, at least four months ago. I, ah, visited Angelina and Kurt at Kurt's apartment. Mrs. Kelly probably a couple of months before that. Actually, I gave Mrs. Clark a call just a couple of days ago to ask how things were going, but she wasn't at home at the time."

"You haven't been to her house lately?"

"Oh, well yes, I did stop by yesterday to say hello, but no one was home."

"Was that before or after we talked to you?"

"Before, that's where I was coming from when you met me at the door yesterday."

"Just a couple more questions, Mr. Clark. Any luck and the boys will have finished by then. How well do you know Mr. Xavier Cipriano?"

"Xavier who?" Hell's bells, where was that question coming from? "I've never met anyone by that name."

"Are you sure, Mr. Clark? We have information that you and he are in business together."

"What? No, you've been misinformed. I don't know him. I don't know the name. I don't have any idea what Mr. Cipriano does for a living."

"That would be wise of you Mr. Clark. Xavier Cipriano has a bad reputation. I should say had. Mr. Cipriano turned up dead two days ago. Shot through the head with a .38. Our informant also said you might own a gun like that. Matter of fact, that's why we're here today."

"Who told you that? It's absolutely ridiculous. I don't own a gun. I didn't shoot anyone. Why would anyone tell you I did?"

"The informant didn't leave a name, but he was very specific about details. So specific that we had no choice but to follow up on his accusations. Where do you bank Mr. Clark?"

"What? What has that got to do with anything? It's First National, if it's any of your business."

"Thank you for being honest. The informant already gave us that information. Have you made any big deposits lately Mr. Clark?"

"Detective Sinclair I've been out of work for months now. I haven't made any deposits of any size for quite a while. Just withdrawals."

"Have you checked your bank balance lately Mr. Clark?"

"No, it always depresses me to do that."

"Can you access your account on-line?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Do me a favor and take a look at your account now, will you please?"

I got my laptop, got it running and logged in to First National. At first glance I didn't see anything different, until I saw the savings account balance. Last time I'd looked it was down to less than ten dollars. Now it showed ten thousand. The change occurred two days ago in one big lump.

"Wait a minute. This can't be right. There should be less than ten dollars in my savings account, now there are ten thousand there. That isn't mine. I haven't had any income since I was laid off. What the Hell is going on Detective?"

"That's what we are wondering Mr. Clark. Are you sure that you don't have anything you'd like to tell us?"

For a moment, I thought about giving up Fred and blaming all of it on him. Then I remembered that not so veiled threat. And the revolver I had hidden out in the back yard. Maybe I needed to think this through.

"Detective Sinclair, you are barking up a tree that doesn't have anything hidden in the branches. I don't know anything at all about what you've been talking about. In fact, I think it's time you answered a question for me. I've lost two friends in a relatively short time. Now Angelina and her mother aren't answering my calls. Do you have any information about them? Please, I need to know."

"I can't tell you much," Sinclair replied, "we couldn't raise anyone at the Kelly residence; and the neighbors haven't seen either one of them lately. I'd be inclined to ask for a search warrant if they don't show up in a day or two. Beyond that all we can say is that they don't answer their door."

"I don't understand," I said, "I told you that Angelina was with Kurt the last I knew. If he has been killed, why wouldn't you want to find out about Angelina right away?"

"Mr. Clark, you said that you hadn't seen either one of them for months. Who's to say they are even speaking to each other now? Or do you know something you haven't said?"

"No, I don't know anything. I keep telling you that. But I'm worried about Angelina. And her mother. Can't you act on my request?"

"No can do, you haven't provided a substantial reason to suspect anything has happened. Seventy-two hours will be up tonight according to your story about noticing when they didn't answer the door or phone. Then maybe we can think about looking into it."

The searcher named Smitty came in about then and said something to Sinclair I couldn't hear. He turned to look at me again.

"Well Mr. Clark, the boys have finished their work here. Thank you for your cooperation. And for the coffee, it was a bit too strong for my taste, but thanks anyhow. We'll get out of your hair now, but the request that you let us know about any travel plans stays in place for the time being. Have a good day!"

He stopped at the kitchen doorway and turned back to me.

"Oh yeah. About that ten grand in the bank. You might not want to do anything with that. Maybe it's a mistake, or maybe it isn't. I could freeze your account, but I figure you need something to live on. Just leave that savings account alone. Alright?"

"Of course! It's not mine and I have no intention of spending it."

I stood at the living room window watching the six of them pile into vehicles and pull away. What the Hell was that all about?

After another sleepless night, I felt groggy and out of sorts at the breakfast table. I was tempted to let the telephone keep on ringing when it started in the middle of a sip of coffee, but after a few rings I gave up and answered the thing.

"Yeah?"

"This CC?"

"Who's calling?"

"I said is this CC?"

"And I said who's calling?"

"Look you, I'm going to guess you must be him so you should listen. I was told you'd be in the slammer this morning, but no you aren't. So, I wonder why that is. How did you not wind up in a cell CC?"

I hung up on him. Whoever it was, I had no intention of giving out free information to Mr. Anonymous. He called me CC. Who would give out my name in that way except for Fred? Now that brought up a really unsettling feeling. If Fred told that guy I was supposed to be in jail, didn't that mean the person who gave incriminating stories to the cops must be Fred? No wonder he wasn't anywhere to be seen. If he said something to give the cops a reason to come calling the chances are he would make sure he wasn't anywhere nearby at the time. The gun and the deposit in the bank account started to have an explanation. Somehow Fred was setting me up to take a fall for something. The bastard.

An hour later and I was still trying to make sense out of it. I was more tempted to call Sinclair and give him everything I knew. Surely he would believe me now that I had a little understanding of what was happening. OK, maybe he'd give me a hard time about lying and hiding the revolver, but I didn't have a record, not even a parking ticket. Wouldn't that count for something?

I was standing at the living room window trying to sort out my options when a big blue Mercedes slowed on the way by my house. The rear window opened and something poked out. Suddenly my front window exploded and I jerked back to avoid flying glass. A hissing passed close to my ear and it was an evil sound; it was followed by something that cut a burning swath across my jaw line throwing me off balance. I wound up in a heap on the floor. Three more things went by overhead and thumping noises came from the wall on the opposite side of the room. I heard the car rev its engine followed by a squeal of tires. I got to my knees and chanced a quick look over the window sill through broken shards of glass. The Mercedes was gone. The phone started ringing again. I suppose it was an automatic reaction when I reached up from my position on the floor and took it off the hook.

"Yes?"

"So CC, that was a message for you. It said: find me your buddy Fred and bring him around to me real soon. I'll tell you where next time I call. Just in case you had any thoughts about getting help from your cop friends, I'd advise against it. If the continued good health of a couple of ladies you know means anything to you, then talking to the cops is something you definitely do not want to do. And, if you do, I will know about it. You can believe that.

"I will get back to you in a day or so. You might want to put something over that hole in your window. I hear it's going to rain tonight."

The phone line went dead. I realized that I had gotten up and was standing at a wide open window with nothing between me and another passing car. I pulled the drapes closed and retreated to the kitchen. My hands were shaking so badly that when I tried to open a beer to wet my dry mouth it dropped to the tile floor and exploded; glass shards and suds flying to the far end of the room. I got another one out of the fridge and tried again, this time with better results.

After cleaning up the mess I spent the rest of that day and well into the night thinking of my position. Fred was giving false evidence to the police and was in big trouble with his boss. This Boss person knew all about that and apparently had kidnapped Mrs. Kelly and Angelina. I had no idea why he had done that; it didn't seem to fit with what I knew. The police, on the other hand were investigating something that Fred was able to give information about, but were not convinced that I had anything to do with it. Otherwise, I'd be occupying a cell by now. Then there was Xavier. A shadowy figure from the past; I remembered that strange confrontation in high school when he named us all and seemed to give warning about something. He was dead, shot by a gun that might be the one that was undoubtedly planted behind my cereal box by Fred. Did that mean Fred had killed Xavier? Is that why the Boss is mad at Fred? Being personally knowledgeable about the ease with which the Boss-person employed gunfire to get his way, I suspected that Fred was understandably afraid for his life.

Given all that, what if I did somehow manage to bring Fred to his boss? Chances are I wouldn't be getting a pat on the head in return, and chances are that Angelina and her mother wouldn't survive either. As a matter of speculation I thought it very likely that the two women were already dead. Why take a chance if you are the Boss that anyone would survive to tell tales?

So, there was not much reason to believe that things would be better if I did as the Boss demanded. There was, I concluded, a good chance that my survival might be better ensured by going to the police with what I knew and hope for the best.

Many hours later, after twisting and turning in bed without much sleep, I got up and dressed. I retrieved the towel-wrapped revolver from beneath the shed and put in a plastic grocery bag. Then, when I thought it was late enough in the morning to be normal business hours, I drove to the local police station and parked around the corner from the front door. I walked in that direction, looking over my shoulder and jumping at any noise that seemed out of place. I stopped at the corner of the Benson Building and looked around the corner towards the police station. Immediately, I pulled back. The blue Mercedes was parked at the curb and a familiar figure was stooped down looking into the open back window. It was Detective Harmon, and as I looked a second time he stood up and accepted a small, white package handed out to him through the window. After a few seconds of trying to fit this new information into a reasonable explanation, it came to me that I should revise my plans.

I concluded, by the time I got back home, that my options were reduced to two courses of action. I could take a bag and leave town for good, or I could try to fix things by doing what the Boss wanted. It seemed to me that I still did not understand much of what was going on except that none of it was good for my health. I decided with considerable trepidation that there might be a third option. If I could find Fred and somehow get the whole story out of him, I would at least know what I had to be on the lookout to avoid. How to find Fred was a sizeable problem all by itself, but at least looking for him seemed to be the least dangerous of the options.

I'd been to his apartment the year we graduated from high school. He had thrown a party and invited the members of the Birthday Club. That was the last place I expected to find him because it was the first place the Boss would look. Some clue to his current location might be found there, however. What clue I did not know, but taking a look would be a positive step forward. I hoped.

I waited until after seven when it was nearly dark to recon Fred's condo. There was a security desk in the lobby and a muscular looking man with a gray uniform sat behind it. Walking in and telling the guy I was there to visit Fred seemed like not such a good idea. I scouted around the back of the building and found a service door next to a larger opening closed off by a

metal garage door that must be used by tenants when moving furniture. Both entrances were locked, but there were numeric key pads next to each one. Chances were that if tenants used these doors the code would be something not too difficult to remember, but the number of 'not too difficult' combinations probably stretched to infinity. Out of frustration I punched in 1-2-3-4, and much to my surprise the small door clicked open.

The concrete floored hallway lead toward the front of the building, and off to my left behind the garage door an elevator with oversized doors stood waiting for the arrival of couches and bookcases. I thought that Fred's apartment was on the fourth or fifth floor. I could take the elevator up and see if anything looked familiar, but that didn't seem like the best thing to do. To my right, a steel door closed off access to a stairwell. That seemed like a better way to go, and when I tried the door knob it turned freely. I stopped myself from going up the stairs when it occurred to me that even if I could figure out which doorway led to Fred's apartment, it was likely to be locked. Besides, I could hear muted music coming from the direction of the front of the building and wondered how tight security might be. Hallway cameras might monitor activity. This place was upscale enough for that to be likely. There might even be cameras looking down on me right that moment. The thought made me flatten against the wall and look around.

The first camera I saw was on a corner of the wall up high against the ceiling. It was pointed downward at the elevator door. Feeling fortunate not to have pushed the elevator's up button I thought it might be wise to check out the ground floor and get some idea about camera coverage. I padded as softly as I could along the hallway toward the front of the building. The hallway ended against a concrete wall and an opening led off to the right. The music was louder here, but there were no openings along the twenty or so feet until the end of the right-hand corridor where a doorway had a sign that said "Lobby". No cameras so far. The door had a small window set at about eye height giving a view out into the lobby. Immediately on the right inside the lobby was a door set into the wall that had a sign reading "Leasing Office". To the left, there was a short section of blank wall, beyond which I could see the carpet floored lobby. The security desk must be somewhere out of sight in that direction.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when the Leasing Office door opened with a scraping noise and a young woman carrying a purse came out. She carried a long coat over the other arm and I thought that she might be leaving work for the night. The door closed by itself, but stopped with a thump before the latch engaged. The woman pulled on the door handle, but apparently the door was stuck open. She gave an annoyed grunt and tried again pulling with as much force as she could muster. After a few seconds of staring at the door she turned on her heel and walked into the lobby area. I could hear her calling to someone, probably the security guard, as she walked.

I'd been thinking that the Leasing Office might have tenant records and if I could gain access that would make it easy to locate Fred's apartment. Without thinking too much about how the plan might fail, I opened the hallway door and went to the Leasing Office door. I could hear the woman's voice off in the lobby and an answer by a male voice that must belong to the security guard. The Leasing Office door opened with a scraping noise that sounded loud enough to rouse the dead. I went into the office and looked around the darkened room for somewhere to hide. A small door in the rear of the room was closed, but I was willing to bet that it led either to a closet or private bathroom. I made it inside just as the outer door to the office opened again, and the lights came on.

"I see the problem, Carol. Look up at the top hinge--you see how the screws are loose and the hinge is bent away from where it should be flat against the jamb?"

"Yes, I do. So what?"

"Well that makes the door tilt sideways and the top of the door hits against the jamb instead of fitting inside like it should. I probably can lift the door enough to get it closed, but I don't have any tools to fix the hinge. I'll leave a note for Jonsey. He comes in about seven in the morning and if he gets to it right away, it'll be fixed by the time you get here to start work."

"OK, Carlos, thank you for helping."

"Not a problem, Carol. Come on, I'll walk you to the door and let you out."

I wondered when my luck was going to run out; surely something had to go wrong pretty soon. I decided to make the most of my fortune and came out of the bathroom, ready to jump back in at the first sign of trouble. I remembered the glimpse of a lamp on the desk, which I opted for instead of the overhead lights. They would throw a stronger light that might be seen coming out from under the door. It took a bit of fumbling in the dark, but soon I had the on-off switch located. The desk was unlocked, luck was still with me, and the third side drawer I tried gave up a ledger with just the information I'd hoped to find. It was divided into loose-leaf sections for each floor of the building, and within each section there was one page each for individual apartments. Fred Figueroa was listed owner of apartment 5-C. The page under his name had notes about repairs requested and done with dates of completion. At the bottom was personal information including phone numbers, contact information, and credit references including the name of Fred's bank. I wondered why they needed that information. There was a number in a box in the upper right hand corner that had no designation. I didn't have a clue what it might mean until I saw a metal door set into the wall behind the desk. It opened up to reveal a neat arrangement of sets of keys in rows and columns, each one with a metal tag bearing a five digit number. The one with a number matching the one written in the ledger on Fred's page was fifth row down in the right hand column. I checked the cuts and found the keys to be identical. I undid the first one from the ring and put it in my pocket. My luck had to expire pretty soon, this was almost ridiculously easy.

Getting out of the Leasing Office without being found out was the next hurdle, but then I had an idea. There was an embossed business card in a holder on top of the desk giving numbers for the Leasing Office, automated answering machine, and security desk. I took out my cell and called Carlos. He was very accommodating about explaining that I had the wrong number, but would try to find the right number for the pizza joint on his computer. It would just take a moment he said. I thanked him profusely as I left the Leasing Office door slightly ajar and headed for the stairwell at the back of the building. If he wondered why I whispered, he didn't ask.

There weren't any cameras in the stairwell. I thought that was a mistake. If I lived here I would want to know who was coming up my stairs. Still it made the task a little easier for me and I made the fifth floor without any interference. Peeking out through the stairwell door I looked around for cameras. The only one to be seen was pointed at the elevator. I still held the opinion that the security arrangements could use some help. Why not have one pointed down the hallway? Not that I was about to complain. Apartment 5-C was at the northeast corner of the building; farthest away from the elevator. It was one of the three on this floor, and I recognized the doorway from my first visit. It had a little fancy scrollwork on the name plate that read Fred Figueroa. I rang the bell just in case, but there was no answer. The key worked just fine, and I was standing in the entrance foyer a moment later. I stood still to listen for any noise that might indicate someone was at home, but only the ticking of some clock could be heard.

Successful break and enter I thought. Now, how do I find something useful? The first thing I noticed was a framed picture on the entryway wall. That's where Fred had hung his high school diploma. He had made sure we all saw it. Now there was a rather strange picture of a singlewide trailer sitting on blocks. No caption, no identifying text, and I had no idea what it meant.

The living room was just off the entryway and was huge. I didn't remember all this space from my first visit here. Of course, we were there to party so details might not have made it into my memory banks. I did remember a lot of alcohol, food and loud music. There was hardly any furniture, and what there was had a hard chrome look. Square shapes and lots of glass. No place anywhere to hide stuff in this room. Even the pictures on the wall were unframed, just photos under glass. The foyer picture didn't seem so strange after I looked at the other subjects portrayed. Everything from classic cars to bi-wing airplanes. Fred had a strange sense of the artistic.

The living room opened on one side to a spacious kitchen. Same chrome look, with granite counter tops and enamel cabinetry. Unless Fred hid his secrets in the coffee canister there were few places that could cover up a secret. I looked in the freezer just because I had seen a movie once where that was where they hid the drugs and money. Fred didn't do that.

There were two bedrooms at the other end of the apartment with a bathroom in between. One was entirely bare; not even a cot. I supposed that Fred had few out of town visitors. The second bedroom was more conventionally furnished although the bed was huge and round, and when I touched it a wave made its way across the surface. I wondered if he kept a bottle of Dramamine nearby. The closet was packed with clothes, and most of them had an expensive look. There were racks of shoes on the floor, and none of them lacked a shine. It was a rich man's wardrobe. I began to get a feeling for Fred's net worth that didn't comport with the role he typically played when in our company at high school. Something had changed since those days, and I was pretty sure it wasn't due to an intelligent investment strategy.

There was nothing I could see that gave me any hope of finding Fred. This place was his and his alone. If he wasn't here, who knew where he could be.

The bathroom was a washout as well. Mostly men's grooming stuff of the expensive sort. And the cabinets under the sink were amazingly clear of clutter. Mine had stacked bottles of over-the-counter medicines, shoe polish, and band aids. His consisted of talcum powder and aftershave lotion next to a stack of monogrammed hand towels.

The one room that remained took up space behind the wall of the entry foyer and seemed to be a kind of office. That gave me a momentary lift because you'd think business related stuff would be there. I was to be disappointed. There was a DVD player next to a rack of discs. The few I looked at were of the porno variety. The art on the wall fit in with the choice of DVD's with numerous naked female bodies in various poses instructive of anatomy. Fred appeared to have a well liberated libido. A small closet in the room contained a pillow, a fly swatter, and a jar of peanuts. These things did not suggest to me any direction in which to take my investigations. I was ready to give it up as a bad, no a useless job. I would have to come up with some other way to smoke Fred out of his hiding place.

On the way to the front door I noticed the picture of the trailer had been tilted off level; probably I had brushed it when passing. I stopped to straighten it out, and noticed something I hadn't the first time I looked at it. In the distance behind the trailer was an elevated water tank. The kind kids like to climb to write "I love Mary" or something less publishable. I knew that water tank. It had a particular shape. You could see it from Wheaton High. I lifted the picture from the wall and liberated it from its frame. Maybe there was a point to this B and E after all.

By the time I had made it back to my truck, it was well after nine, and being a moonless night it was very dark. I turned on the reading lamp, but I couldn't see the picture well enough to try and estimate where the trailer lay with respect to the water tank. Maybe, if I drove to Wheaton High and got bearings on the water tank from there I would get some idea of where to begin looking for the trailer. I stuck to the back residential roads on the way, not wanting to risk exposure on the main route between Silver Spring and Wheaton. There was probably absolutely no way anyone would even be looking for me, and I pushed aside the idea I was becoming paranoid. I'd forgotten how convoluted the roads in and between subdivisions were, and it must have taken more than an hour to find my way, but I couldn't convince myself to go out to the main drag and go faster. OK, maybe a little paranoia was a good thing.

Finally, the blocky shape of Wheaton High came into view. I found a spot in one of the outlying parking areas and looked out the windshield toward where the water tank must be. I couldn't see a thing. The trees in the regional park adjoining the school had grown too tall; I'd have to get closer on foot. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, I walked quickly toward the tree line looking for a break in the vegetation. After some thrashing about in the undergrowth I managed a clear view across the valley occupied by the park. There it was up on the next ridge to the east, the onion-shaped tank stood atop five steel legs that held it aloft well above the tree tops. I pulled the photo out of my pocket and tried to pick out the image of the water tank. It was so dark, I could barely make out any detail and I cussed at myself for not bringing a flashlight. From what I remembered looking at it in the well-lit foyer the water tank was uphill from the trailer. That would put it on the lower slope of the ridge across the valley, and either on the side facing me or one the other side of the hill. I couldn't visualize how I could drive and wind up at the right place. What the Hell, I set off on foot.

Stumbling over roots and bushes unseen in the dark, and hoping there weren't any vicious or poisonous wildlife in the area I made it down to the bottom of the slope where a small rill carried water a couple of inches deep. It was too wide to jump across, and my shoes were totally waterlogged by the time I got to the other side. I kept to the contour of the hill and began walking in the direction I hoped would lead to the trailer.

A half hour later, having negotiated unseen brambles and more than a few loose stones, the vegetation thinned and I came out into a semi-cleared area. The trees were gone, but the ground was covered with weeds as high as my chest. There were several dark shapes in the near distance, and one of them was partly illuminated by a dim light. It was hard to tell whether it was the trailer in the photo, but I was ready to get out of the weeds by then and didn't really care.

I rounded the structure toward the lighted side, and gradually the details came into focus. It could very well be the right trailer, I thought.

Keeping close to the side of the trailer I moved toward a door, above which the low-wattage bulb shone on a set of rickety-looking stairs. I paused, thinking of what I was going to do. If Fred was inside the trailer, I didn't want to alert him to my presence too soon. For all I knew, he had another way out and could leave me afoot if he had a vehicle nearby. There wasn't a car on the driveway at the front of the trailer, but I couldn't see well enough to tell if one might be standing just out of sight.

Moving an inch at a time I made my way to the stairs and put my foot on the first of three steps. The entire staircase swayed under my weight and a creaking noise cut through the silence. Great! That was louder than a doorbell would have been. I decided that speed was the better option then, and jumped up to the top step hoping the whole thing didn't collapse under my weight. I let out a sigh of relief when it didn't. The door opened into the trailer when I turned the knob and gently gave the door a push. Quietly it opened to its full extent, but if anything it was darker inside the trailer than it was outside. I listened for noises that would announce some life within, but heard nothing at all. Nothing for it but to go in and look around. I steeled my nerves, and sidled a foot forward. Ready to jump back at the slightest sign of danger. Even so, it caught me by surprise.

The body slammed into mine and sent me sprawling over something low and I wound up laying on something soft. A bright light came on and blinded me for an instant, and when my vision cleared I saw Fred standing over me with a pistol in his hand.

"CC! How in the hell did you know I was here?"

"Fred, take it easy. I don't mean you any harm," I lied "but I have to talk to you about what has happened."

He turned and closed the door, after first looking outside for signs of anyone coming in behind me. The pistol hadn't wavered from pointing directly at my head.

"CC, you damn near scared me to death. No one is supposed to know about this place. Answer my question, how did you know I was here?"

"The water tank."

"Huh? What water tank?"

"The one on the hill behind your trailer. It's on the photo in the foyer of your apartment."

"You've been to my condo? Damn it CC, what are you up to? Why are you snooping around in the middle of the night?"

"You should know why Fred. After all, you made me the target for both the police and your boss. You thought I would simply sit back and take it? I want some answers from you, Fred, and you are going to give them to me."

"CC, you seem to have the situation backwards. You don't have a gun pointed at my head. I'm in total control and you are going to shut up while I decide what to do with you."

"Where are Angelina and her mother, Fred? What has happened to them?"

"What are you talking about? I haven't seen either one of them in months."

"Then why did your boss take them?"

"Oh, you know about that, do you? Sylvester must have decided to put some pressure on you, right?"

"Who's Sylvester/"

"He's the guy who calls the shots now days. Nobody around here is going to go up against him—including me. Why aren't you in jail CC? The cops were supposed to haul you in."

"Your plan went wrong Fred. They couldn't find the gun you planted on me, and didn't have enough to put me under arrest."

"Ah hell, so you picked now to get smart about things? Just my luck."

"Look Fred, you have to do something to get Angelina and Mrs. Clark out of trouble. Why are they involved in your problem? What does this Sylvester guy think he's going to gain by holding them?"

"Shut up, I'm trying to think."

"It's too late for that Fred. Give it up man. You have to go to the police and straighten all this up. And tell them what happened to Angelina."

"I said shut up, or I'm going to blow your damn head off right here and now!"

I didn't like the way the end of the pistol jerked back and forth as he shouted those words. I hoped it didn't have a hair trigger.

"OK, I got no choice CC. You brought this on yourself. Get up and move to the door."

"Where we going Fred?"

"Shut up!"

I got to my feet and walked around the coffee table toward the front door. He poked the end of the pistol in my ribs.  
"Remember I've got this gun pointed at your back CC. Slowly open the door and move down the stairs. No quick moves CC. You wouldn't make it five feet."

The stairs weren't any more stable going down than they were going up. I stopped when I got to the ground and waited for instructions.

"Keep it slow and steady CC, and move off straight ahead. Baby steps CC, baby steps."

The driveway was uneven beneath my feet, and even though the porch light was behind me it didn't give off enough illumination to see where I was headed.

"OK CC, turn to the right and move off into the weeds. Head for that poplar tree and stop when you get to it."

I couldn't see the weeds in front of me let alone any tree, but I felt a stick brush against my right hand. As I let the stick work its way across the palm of my hand I could feel small twigs along its length and leaves ran between my fingers. It was a small tree, a sapling maybe a half-inch in diameter. I kept my hand on it and it bent down as I continued to walk. After a few steps it came to an abrupt end and without the continued pressure of my hand snapped back to the vertical. I heard Fred gasp in surprise, and a shot rang out. The bullet must have passed through the sleeve of my shirt and I felt a sudden, searing warmth as it cut through my biceps. In response I jerked to the right, and turned enough to see Fred back lighted by the porch lamp. The sapling had slapped him in the face, and he was holding his free hand up to his eye. No better chance was going to come my way so I jumped at him, clutching at the gun in his right hand.

We wound up on the ground with me on top and our arms trapped between our bodies. The gun went off a second time and I felt Fred relax beneath me. Still holding his gun hand I got to my knees and looked at his face. He seemed to gasp for breath once and then his stare became unfocused and his mouth hung open. I looked down at his chest. It didn't move with breathing like it should, and there was a dark spot in the middle of his chest that was spreading outward in a circle in the cloth of his shirt. I've seen a couple of dead people in my life, but had never been present at the moment of death. I turned my head away and retched into the weeds.

I got to my feet and looked down at the body. I felt a weight in my hand and found that I still held his gun without even being aware of it. Now what? My best chance of getting out of this mess and rescuing Angelina and her mother lay dead on the ground. I only knew that I wanted to get away from this place. Far, far away. I started walking back toward the trailer; maybe there was something inside that would help. I didn't think anyone lived close enough to have heard the noise of the shots. The regional park would have been empty at night and the school, even if someone was there, was too far away.

The light in the trailer was still on. The place was fairly neat inside. Probably I shouldn't have been surprised at that. The apartment had been neat as a pin also. Fred had been a competent housekeeper. The furnishings were on the shabby side, and I wondered why Fred hadn't dressed this place up with his fancy furnishings. Of course, merely the fact that Fred kept this place was a mystery. Maybe it had been the place where he lived when in high school. He'd never invited us over so I didn't know, but thinking back he always left school walking in a direction that would have come near this place.

I made the rounds of the rooms in the trailer, looking for anything that might give a clue about Fred's involvement in crime. There was a small safe in one room that served as a bedroom, but had only a small cot. Its door was shut, and I immediately gave up any hope of getting inside. A small closet in the room contained no clothes, but a banker's box sat by itself on the shelf. I lifted it down and took off the cover. The odd assortment inside included a woman's hair brush, a kid's toy, a deflated football, a side view mirror from a car, a scrap of paper that I saw was a newspaper clipping, and a memory stick. The clipping was a two-line obituary for someone named Herschel Figueroa. Fred had never told us his father's name, but it could have been Herschel. Why not? I put the memory stick in my pocket thinking it probably wasn't important. If it was, it would have been in the safe.

The bathroom yielded a roll of gauze and a couple of gauze pads so I wrapped up my arm as best I could, and hoped that would do the job for the time being. It hurt like hell, and I knew I'd have some explaining to do at the urgent care place. None of the other rooms held anything of interest, and I was getting anxious to leave. It wasn't that long before dawn and I did not want to be anywhere near the place when the Sun came up. I was disinclined to return home. It would be too easy to find me there. I needed to stay out of contact with Fred's boss, letting him know that Fred was dead might lead to disaster. I still didn't think I'd be given a pat on the head if I brought him Fred, dead or alive. Now that I had doubts about the honesty of the local police, I wasn't anxious to test out whether talking to them would be a good thing.

There was one last place I could think of where answers might be found. Kurt's house. If he had a box of evidence gathered by Billy, or by him and Angelina after Billy's death, it was possible that there would be something of use to me. There was a faint light off to the east as I crossed the valley and climbed the hill to the school parking lot. It made for much easier walking, but I was close to being worn out by the time I got to my truck, and wished for nothing more than a bed and a full night's rest. I would have to settle for a cheap motel room and a nap during the day. The idea of snooping around places where bad guys of one ilk or the other might have a lookout during broad daylight seemed not a good idea. Obviously at least one bunch knew about Kurt's house and what had gone on there.

It was ten at night and the new moon showed just at the horizon. I drove on back roads again, stopping at an all-night pharmacy to pick up new dressings, pain killers, and antiseptic. I drove until I ended up at the street that intersected First Avenue about two blocks away from Kurt's house. He rented a small ranch style that was built in the middle of the last century and looked it. I parked at the curb in front of a house that had a for sale sign in front and looked unoccupied. It didn't take long to walk to the alley that ran behind Kurt's house. I wondered if I could recognize the house from the back, but I thought that the packed dirt backyard with not a stick of green growing would give it away, and I was right. It didn't take much athleticism to hop the chain link fence and walk up to the back of the house. The bedroom window without a screen was there, and I remembered that the latch on that window was stuck in the open position. I checked my pockets one more time. The medical supplies and both guns were there, loaded and ready to fire if need be. I thought I'd change my bandage once inside and safe. I brought the guns because I'd decided that it didn't make sense to let myself be disadvantaged the way Fred had done me.

The window slid sideways without too much noise, but I still hoped that there was no one in the house. Getting up and into the window took a little more agility than the fence, but I managed to suppress the groans when I hit my damaged arm against the window frame. I rolled over the sill and let my front end down onto the floor. I let gravity bring my legs down behind and wound up more or less flat out on the carpeted floor. So far, so good.

I held as still as possible and listened for sounds of anything living, but aside from the odd creak and ping that comes with an old house there was nothing. I wasn't about to turn on any lights, so the small flashlight from the drugstore that I had in my shirt pocket would have to suffice. I decided to start in the more exposed front room, the living room, to get the most dangerous part done first. Besides, that's where I'd last seen the box I was aiming to find. The hallway between rooms was carpeted also, and the sound of my feet was little more than a swish as I walked. At the doorway of the living room I stopped and once again listened. Hearing nothing I looked around the corner of the doorway and scanned the dark room before lighting up the flashlight. It seemed empty and quiet. I turned on the light but pointed it at the floor, and the first thing that came into view was a large, dried, brown stain on the carpet. I knew immediately what it was and almost retched again.

That's when the hand settled on my left shoulder, and squeezed hard.

SINCLAIR

"Son, don't go for any weapon. I've got mine in your back and you wouldn't stand a chance. OK? Shake your head yes if you understand. Good. Now reach around and flip on the light switch for me, would you please?"

I watched Clark as he turned on the light and then looked back over his shoulder in my direction. His look of recognition came quickly, and I saw he was calculating odds in his head.

"Mr. Clark, Chris, you and I have a lot to discuss. I hope that you will hold off on doing anything foolish, and will be patient while we get our positions straightened out."

He visibly relaxed and I thought we could move this along.

"Now, if you will turn and face me, we can go into the kitchen where we can sit down and go over a few ground rules."

We settled at the on opposite sides of the table so that we had full view of each other. I took a moment to look him over. His clothes looked like they hadn't seen a washing machine in a month, and there was a splatter of something that looked suspiciously like blood on the front of his shirt and on one sleeve. He had a two or three day growth of beard, but it was so light colored that you wouldn't notice it at a distance. His eyes were telling a story all their own. Darting around the room, but always coming back to settle on the tabletop.

"Chris, you look like hell. What have you been up to? I know you haven't been home in a while, and I wonder if that has anything to do with the big hole in your front window."

"Detective Sinclair," he said, "where's your partner?"

"Harmon? Oh, I gave him the night off. He seemed to have something to do tonight anyway, and besides my little stakeout here might have come to nothing and there wasn't any point in wasting two peoples' time."

"How did you know I would come here?"

"Oh," I replied, "that wasn't a hard call. Sooner or later you would have gotten curious enough to try and find out what your friend Kurt had been up to. I figured it would be sooner."

"You talk as though I am no longer suspected of anything."

"Oh my, did I give you the impression you were a suspect? That we were interested in you for doing something criminal? I am certainly sorry you took it that way. No, no, only trying to patch up the holes in the overall tale, and I thought you might have observed something of interest. Why don't you tell me about what you've been doing since the last time we met; you look as though it has not been a peaceful couple of days."

"How about Angelina and her mother? Have you found out anything about where they are?"

"No, we did search their house today, and there were signs of a struggle inside, including a dead dog in one of the bathrooms, but no sign of the women. Have you heard anything more about them?"

"No," he replied, "but I think the guy who has them is named Sylvester."

"How do you know that?"

There was a long hesitation after my question, as if the boy was unsure of how to go on. I thought any pressure would just make him more stubborn, so I let him think on it and asked about his obviously wounded arm instead.

"What happened to your arm? It's bleeding badly you know. You should have it treated right away."

"Yeah, I was going to change the bandage once I got inside here. I think the bleeding is slowing down, and I picked up some antiseptic to clean it. I'll have it looked at as soon as I can."

"Doesn't look like a cut," I said. "And those holes in your shirt make me think of something the size of a bullet."

"Yeah, OK, that's what happened: a gun went off and I was in the way. I don't think it's bad, just went through and out. It hurts a lot, but right now I don't mind the pain. It kind of keeps me awake and alert."

"Alright, so who was holding the gun when it went off? Anyone I might know? And, did you fire back with that gun in your pocket?"

He jerked back in his chair and I thought he might reach into his pocket then, but my weapon was lying on the table in front of me. He looked at it and then at me, and seemed to reach a decision.

"Detective Sinclair, I may come to regret this, but I have to trust someone. I only hope that you and Harmon are not also partners in his sideline business."

"What business is that, Chris?"

"The hole in my window? It was put there by someone riding in the backseat of a blue Mercedes. That same blue Mercedes was parked outside your station house earlier today, and Harmon was there squatting down on the sidewalk; talking to someone in the back seat. He stood up after he finished talking, and whoever was in the back seat handed out a white package. I don't know what was in the package, but there are a couple of good possibilities."

"Do you know the name of the person in the car?" I asked.

"Not for sure, but I think it is Sylvester something or other."

"And, why do you think that?

"Fred told me that his boss' name was Sylvester, and the guy who called me just after my window got shot out told me to bring Fred to him. He also said that I shouldn't tell the cops about anything if I wanted no harm to come to two ladies. I guess that makes it circumstantial, but I think it's true."

As I listened to him I had to think of how I had spent a year and a half trying to find something to prove Harmon was on the take; and who his handler was. This kid had done it in less than a week. But, the case needed to be stronger. There had to be evidence directly connecting Harmon and this Sylvester character.

"What is Fred's last name," I said, "and where can I find him?"

"Figueroa. You can find him dead in the dirt at his second home."

"Son, every time I ask you a question, I wind up needing the answers to more questions. Do you want to fill me in on the details here?"

"Fred has, had, an apartment in Silver Spring, but he grew up in a trailer house with his father over in Wheaton. That's where I found him last night. We had a scuffle and the gun he was holding on me went off."

"A little more detail, please. Why did you fight, and how do you know he is dead?"

"Fred is the person who set me up with the gun and told your people that I had something to do with Cipriano's death. Apparently he also told his boss, Sylvester, that I killed Cipriano. I don't know, maybe he thought that if I was charged with the murder, or maybe even killed by Sylvester in revenge for Cipriano's death, he could stay out of trouble.

When you and Harmon showed up at my house looking for a gun, I knew that Fred had hidden it and then reported me to the police. I had found it already because Fred didn't do a very good job of hiding it. Maybe he wanted to make it easy for you to find. I think that maybe he also put that money into my account. He had the opportunity to find out my banking details while he was staying at my place."

"He was staying at your place?" I interrupted his story. "When was that?"

"He was there for two days just before you and Harmon showed up, I think he was still there the night before, but not afterward. Him disappearing, and you showing up was too much of a coincidence. He had to be the one who put you onto me.

"Naturally, I wanted to talk to Fred and ask him what was going on. Maybe we weren't best friends, but we had known each other for years, and I couldn't imagine why he was trying to get me into trouble. He moved away from Wheaton soon after graduation and I had been to his place in Silver Spring once for a party. That was the first place I checked out, but he wasn't there. I knew the general location of where he had lived in Wheaton while in high school and I figured out where from a picture I saw in the apartment. It took a little wandering around but I finally found his place in a trailer park near the school."

"OK," I said, "I suppose that all could be true. You haven't said how you know Figueroa is dead. If he is still living but injured we should get some help to him."

"The bullet wound was in the middle of his chest and blood was coming out fast, but then it stopped. He stopped breathing. I didn't try to take a pulse, but I'm pretty sure."

"Tell me how to find him."

I listened to him while he gave directions. I would have preferred a street address, but what he said was specific enough to get an idea of where to begin looking. I decided that maybe this should be kept under wraps for the time being.

"Chris, let's get your wound cleaned up and treated, and then I'll call in for a team to go collect Fred and have a look around that trailer. Since that is a bullet wound you should really see a doctor about it as soon as you can. Tetanus shots and sutures for sure. But, before we do that, you might want to give me that gun in your pocket. It makes an unsightly bulge."

"Alright, I'll trust you," he said, "but I don't feel comfortable bringing any other police into this. If Harmon is dirty, there could be others."

As much as I hated to agree with him, he might be right. The idea that Harmon could have operated all this time without some backup in the department was open to a lot of criticism. He stood up and carefully withdrew a gun from his left hand pants' pocket and handed it over. Much to my surprise, he produced another hand gun from his right hand pocket as well.

"The one with the plastic grip," he said, "is the gun that Fred planted in my kitchen pantry. The other one I took from Fred during the fight and it's the one that shot him."

Then he dug into a shirt pocket and pulled out a jump drive.

"This came from Fred's trailer. I found it in a box on a closet shelf along with some other junk. It wasn't locked in the safe he had there, so maybe it doesn't have any pertinent information, but I was going to look at it to see if there might be anything useful."

Yet another surprise; the kid was full of them. Maybe there was another, less public way of proceeding. I knew by then that Chris Clark wasn't going to be arrested for anything. Sure he might have a little problem with having been involved with Figueroa's death, but if an investigation of the scene confirmed his story it would almost certainly go down as self-defense. It might be bad procedure not to put him into a holding cell until then, but he came across as a total innocent.

"Chris, tell you what. I want to keep things on the quiet side for a while. As it happens, I've got a friend who is an EMT, and I think she might be willing to give you a private treatment. Are you willing to take that chance?"

"If that is what it takes to keep me alive, you bet. But, Detective Sinclair, what about Angelina and Mrs. Kelly? Something has to be done about them. I couldn't live with myself if I sat around doing nothing while that Sylvester guy has them killed."

"That is part of the reason for keeping it quiet. If this Sylvester still thinks he can use them to get to you; well that's as safe as they are going to get until we find them."

I called Heather and gave her a brief on what I was asking for. Fortunately, her shift didn't start until later, and she had no other obligations, so I was able to convince her to come over right away. Kurt Dawson's house might not be the most secure place to use as a field hospital, but it was the only one I had.

Two hours later, Heather had come, done her thing, and was gone. I saw that Chris felt a lot better about everything by then, and I thought I could trust him to follow instructions from here on out.

"Chris, I've been here and out of circulation too long by now. Someone, maybe Harmon or if he has confederates in the department another person, could become suspicious about my absence. How would you feel about staying here and working a little project for me?"

"I guess it's as safe here as anywhere else," he replied, "but I'd feel a little better if you left one of those guns with me."

"That's not going to happen, Chris. I'm taking no chances on something going wrong and you winding up dead or guilty of murder because I left a weapon with you. I've got my retirement to think of, you know?"

"But if I get killed because you refused to give me a fighting chance? How is that going to look on your record?"

"Sorry. That I can live with. You forget, no one else knows you are here and that is supposed to include me. Tell you what. I'm going to request a patrol in the general area because of a report of prowlers. This address won't be mentioned, but I'll make sure the patrol car goes by once every hour or so until I get back. That's the best I can do. You just keep your head down."

"OK, I guess," he said with obvious reluctance. "What's that project you said you wanted help with?"

"What you probably came here to do anyway. There is a box of papers in one of the bedroom closets. I think that Dawson was collecting them for evidence in Morton's murder because they seem to date back to the time of his death. I need someone to go through those papers and sort out anything that might be important. Since you know a good part of the story already, you are an obvious choice to do that. There is also a laptop on the same shelf. So why don't you try and take a look at what on this jump drive. Same deal; if there is anything that seems important make a note about it and we'll talk it over when I get back."

"When will that be?"

"I usually take off about eleven o'clock. I'll do the same tonight, but instead of going home I'll come here. It should be near half past when I arrive. Keep your ears open, and let me in. Meanwhile keep it all locked up and keep it quiet, and leave the lights off except the oven light in the kitchen. That light can't be seen from the road out front."

I left him standing in the middle of the kitchen almost in a trance. I didn't particularly like handling it this way but didn't see any options since the players were not identified yet. I shut the front door behind me and made sure it was locked. The walk to the place I'd left the unmarked unit in front of a vacant house took a few minutes, but I saw no sign of anyone about. Good.

A dark gray pickup was parked just behind my car, and it hadn't been there before. After I settled in to the driver's seat and started the engine, I called the plate in. A few minutes later I found out it was registered to Christopher Clark. Great minds think alike—I chuckled. Next, I raised dispatch and put in a surveillance order for the four block area around Dawson's house. I kept the details vague, but told the gal to instruct whoever took the call to remain in the vehicle and drive around in circles; nothing more.

By the time I'd gotten back to the precinct it was near nine in the evening. I'd given a lot of thought to who I wanted to check out the scene at Figueroa's place. Someone I could trust obviously, but that list was pretty damn short. I settled on a second year officer who had impressed me by doing things the right way, instead of the easy way. A lot could have happened during that two years he'd been on the force, but somehow Fitzgerald struck me as being a stand up kind of guy. Besides, Captain Spear had spoken highly about him. If the guy who put me on this investigation thought the kid was OK, then the kid was probably OK.

I got him off his patrol, sat him down at my desk and gave him detailed instructions. Check it out, confirm the report from the witness, but don't move anything. Call me back when he'd done the initial recon for additional instructions. Call me on my cell phone I told him. Do not, under any circumstances use the radio.

Then I added, "Unless you are under fire, of course."

That brought a startled expression to his face.

The name Sylvester wasn't familiar to me, and I wondered how anyone could rise high enough in the local crime scene to be giving hit orders but not be known to the system. I wasn't anxious to be asking around about the name because it might raise more attention than I wanted and drive him to ground; especially if he had contacts in the department. I ran a quick search on NCIC, but came up with nothing. I realized that I didn't know if Sylvester was a first name or last or even real, so that might not mean anything.

Fred Figueroa was a different story. There was a department file that ran to several pages. Not a single arrest let alone conviction, but there were plenty complaints. He was a well known petty criminal with suspected ties to others who had rap sheets for theft, drugs, protection rackets, you name it. But, nothing as serious as kidnap or murder. I was beginning to get a picture of a kid who got into something way out of his depth.

Fitzgerald called me on my cell at quarter to eleven and said he'd had trouble finding the place, but was now on scene.

"Sir," he reported, "it's a dump. The place is a weed covered lot with remnants of several trailers. There aren't even any cement pads for them, just gravel-covered patches with stub-outs for sewage connections. No electric hookups except at one trailer and just the one water hookup. The one with electricity and water is about the only one left in one piece. The rest is a junk yard.

I've found the body of a man, about twenty or so. He has a big scratch across one eye, and a hole in his chest. No sign of life. He's lying face up in the dirt near the edge of the cleared area. I saw a late model Caddy parked on the entry road, but it is some distance from the trailer or the dead guy. I ran the plates—it's registered to Frederick Figueroa, with a Silver Spring address.

I didn't know if I should touch the body, so I didn't check for ID or weapons. What do you want me to do?"

"Did you take a look at the Caddy?"

"Yes Sir, I didn't touch anything except the door handle to see if it was locked. It is a well cared for machine and way out of place for where it sits."

"Can you see it from whatever public road you travel to get there?"

"No Sir, it is behind a thick wall of bushes and brambles on a short cleared strip. Looks like it was intended to be a parking spot. No one is likely to turn into the driveway either because there is a muddy ditch cut across the driveway just after it leaves the pavement."

"Did you look inside the trailer you mentioned?"

"I made a quick look through, just to see if anyone was around. I didn't touch anything. There is a porch light that's on, and one light on inside. The place is very clean and neat; not what I expected from the surroundings."

"Can you give me a GPS on the trailer? No wait, text it to me so I don't have to write it down."

"Will do, Sir."

"OK, you've done great so far Fitzgerald. I would like you to remain where you are and preserve the scene. I expect that someone is going to be interested in the dead guy sooner or later and I don't want anything touched until we can get the ME there in the morning. Where is your patrol car? Can it be seen from the public road?"

"No Sir, I drove it into the middle of the area. I can't see the public road from here."

"Is there a way you could park unseen yet be able to see anyone taking an interest in the turnoff?

"Uh, yeah, I think there's enough room beside the Caddy to park there, nose out. If I angle it just right, I should be able to get a view of the pavement without being seen unless someone actually drove in on the driveway."

"OK, good, do that. Listen Fitzgerald, don't take any chances. If someone tries to visit the trailer, get as good a look as you can and then turn on lights and siren, and call for backup immediately. This time use the radio. If they take off, put out a stop order, but you stay put. OK?"

"Yes Sir, ah, are you going to tell me what's going on here. None of this really sounds by the book."

"I promise you Fitzgerald. As soon as I am able to give you the full run down on it, I will. Meanwhile keep your eyes open and your head down."

"Yes Sir. One question, Sir. If someone does turn up, and they don't turn tail when I hit the lights and siren, what do I do then? I mean backup wouldn't get here for a half hour."

"You have a grill guard on the front end Fitzgerald?"

"Sure, we all do."

"OK in that case test it out at full speed and get the hell out of there."

"Yes Sir. This does not make me less curious about what is going on, Sir."

"You are going to go far, Fitzgerald. Talk to you later."

It was close to eleven-thirty by the time I hung up, and I clocked out for the day. There hadn't been any sign of Harmon anywhere. Ordinarily, I'd think he was following up on something that I would hear about later. After the goings on the last couple of days I was imagining other possibilities.

The roads were relatively quiet for a Friday night as I made my way back toward Dawson's house. I passed a unit handling a collision a few blocks away from my destination. I recognized Officer Flannery from his basketball-player seven-foot height, but he didn't appear to need help, so I drove on. I turned left on First Avenue a couple of blocks up from Dawson's place because I wanted to go by and check it out from the outside. I knew something had gone wrong a half block away. A squad car was sitting out front and the lights were on inside. I parked behind the squad car and got out to walk up the sidewalk to the front door. The crime scene tape had been torn off the jamb, and the door was standing open. A uniformed officer was standing in the middle of the living room. I knew that profile.

"Sergeant McGuire! What are you doing in here?"

"Oh, Hi Detective Sinclair. I was patrolling the area and thought I saw something moving around inside. I didn't think the forensic guys had finished yet, so I thought I should check it out."

"Why are you patrolling the area? I didn't think that sergeants were on that particular duty list." "Yeah, well Flannery, the patrol cop who was going to do it had a call that one of his kids got hurt. I told him I'd take the duty until he was able to return."

"Yeah? No one else available? Don't you have more important things to do?"

"Not for a couple of hours. Everyone else is off on incident reports, even Fitzgerald, the new guy."

"New guy? He's been around for what, two years?"

"Detective, you know how it goes. A guy is a new guy until he earns his way in."

"Maybe so. Alright then, was there anyone here?"

"No, I'm not certain that I saw anything. One of the back windows was wide open though. I suppose anyone who had been inside might have gone out that way. Could have been a homeless guy looking for a spot for the night."

"Homeless? Here in a residential neighborhood? Not likely."

"How come you're here? I thought you got off duty at eleven."

"The initial report mentioned a couple of items I thought might be interesting to look over. I wanted to see if maybe they should be booked in as evidence."

"Oh. What are you looking for? I'll give you a hand."

"A cardboard box full of papers and a lap top. They are supposed to be on a shelf in the first bedroom at the back of the house, but there was some confusion about the box. It could be on the kitchen table instead."

"I walked through the kitchen, and didn't see anything on the table. Let's check the bedroom."

I suspected that it wouldn't be there. If Clark hadn't taken off with it under his arm, it should still be sitting on the kitchen table. Where Clark was by now was anyone's guess. If he had still been here when McGuire came inside, he'd be in cuffs by now, or worse. I was beginning to have some serious doubts about McGuire. Things didn't ring true, and then there was the lie about Flannery.

Worse than that, McGuire coming into Dawson's house unannounced must have scared the hell out of Clark. He already had reason to be suspicious of the police, and now he might think I'd set him up. With no way to get in touch with him, he would go on thinking that. I had no doubt that he was going to try and help the Kelly women. He was going to have a tough time finding them, but that might keep him alive a while longer. Then again, who knows what he might have found in the box or on the jump drive?

Sergeant McGuire came out of the bedroom shaking his head no.

"No luck Detective, what do you want to do now?"

"I'll check back with forensics and make sure they didn't pick it up and maybe forgot to list it on the evidence log. Wouldn't be the first time.

Look, you go ahead and get back on patrol. I'll take a last look around and close up. By the way, how did you get in the door without breaking it down?"

"What? Oh, it wasn't locked. What do you think about that? Those forensic guys are going to get a reaming for sure!"

Since on my previous visit of the night I'd made sure it had been locked, that elevated my suspicion of McGuire by a whole another level. I could almost guarantee that Chris Clark did not go out the front door and calmly walk down the sidewalk to his truck with the box under his arm.

I closed the door, and after making sure the latch was engaged, returned to the car and drove toward my previous parking place. Clark's pickup was gone. Good, that meant he was probably not folded up in McGuire's trunk on his way to Sylvester. On the other hand, I thought the chances were pretty good that the banker's box was sitting in that very place.

It was after midnight. My plans were in shambles, and I needed something to turn up that would point the way to Sylvester, or Harmon, or, it now appeared, to McGuire being dirty. The two places I hadn't checked out personally were Figueroa's residences. The one in Silver Spring could wait until after Figueroa's death had been reported and searching the place became a part of expected routine. Maybe Clark hadn't been thorough in his search of the trailer; there was at least a half chance that something useful could be found there.

I loaded the GPS coordinates Fitzgerald had provided into the onboard unit and asked for directions. The drive turned out to be over a complicated route, and it almost seemed that you could not get there from here, but finally I saw an inconspicuous dirt trail leading off to the right. I pulled off onto the shoulder and gave Fitzgerald a call on my cell. No point in spooking him by driving onto the property without notice. He answered immediately and I said I'd meet him at his parking place.

I stopped on the driveway just clear of Fitzgerald's patrol car and walked over.

"Hello Fitzgerald," I said as his window lowered, "anything happen since I spoke with you?"

"No Sir, nothing to see, nothing to hear except the crickets."

"Good, how much longer do you have on the clock tonight?"

"My shift ended at eleven, Sir. I'm on overtime now," he said with a smile.

"Good luck collecting on that, you must have heard about the budget cuts and no overtime without prior authorization."

"Yes Sir, I know, but I thought you would sign the overtime chit."

"Yeah, don't worry, I will, but maybe it has to wait for a couple of days."

"Yes Sir, whatever you say. You said you were going to fill me in on all this undercover work Sir"

"Right. The dead guy is Fred Figueroa according to the guy who shot him. Figueroa had a long list of petty infractions, but had never been to court. He appears to have had a very effective advocate in the department who runs interference. That's the reason for handling this outside of normal communication protocol. This fits in with other evidence that one or more of our colleagues has connections with the local criminal element. I know this because I was ordered to investigate covertly, and to gather evidence for future action. You, Fitzgerald, are now part of my team in that effort. You must not talk about tonight, not what you've seen, not what I've told you, nothing about any aspect of this business until the investigation is concluded and perpetrators are arrested. Understood?"

"Yes Sir, thank you Sir! How large is our team, Sir?"

"It consists of the only two law officers known to be in the clear."

"Yes, Sir. That leaves a lot of people in the department who are potential suspects, Sir."

"That, Fitzgerald, is a massive understatement. I'll take over here. You go home and get some rest. Tomorrow, report for duty as usual. If I need your help I'll call you on your cell."

I watched his car pull out of the driveway onto pavement and turn toward town. I hoped I wasn't making a mistake with Fitzgerald. If he was part of the problem, I'd find out soon enough. With luck, that notification wouldn't come in the form of a bullet.

I drove farther onto the property and after rounding a gentle curve saw a dim porch light over the door of a single-wide. I pulled into a shadowy area behind the trailer, got out and checked if the vehicle could be seen by anyone approaching on the driveway. The tail end stuck out a few inches more than I liked, but there hadn't been room to hide the car completely. It would have to do.

The door was unlocked and one ceiling light was on inside. Fitzgerald said it was neat and well cared for, and he had been right. My apartment looked like a pig sty compared to the order and dust-free surfaces in the living room. The only slightly discordant element was the coffee table being at an unusual angle to the sofa. Then I remembered that Chris said he had fallen over it. That detail was confirmed at any rate.

I took my time going over the place, drawers, undersides of drawers, closets, pots and pans, coffee container—everything. Except for the closed safe I was not finding anything of the slightest interest. Then I found the box Clark had mentioned. The contents were a strange mix of odds and ends, and none of it was interesting except the side mirror from a vehicle. There was a red streak that ran along what would have been the road-facing exterior of the mirror. I had no idea why Figueroa kept the thing. It must have had some value as a memento. I took out the scrap of newsprint and saw it was an obituary for Herschel Figueroa. Maybe his father. If so, it was easy to imagine that each of the other things in the box meant something special to Figueroa. Some point in his life that marked a significant change. Perhaps that's why the mirror was in the box as well. Unfortunately, none of the items in the box were going to help find the Kelly women. I put it back up on the shelf and finished looking at the remaining room.

I returned to the bedroom and squatted in front of the small safe. It might weigh sixty pounds or so, and a reasonably muscular person could pick it up and carry it off. It took a little effort, but I managed to drag it away from the wall and out into the light. The price tag was still stuck on the back of the case. $199.99 at the local office supply store. Just for kicks I tried pulling on the handle and nearly wound up on my butt as the door unexpectedly swung open. It was empty. Not even a scrap of paper. Now that was peculiar.

My eyes wandered while I tried to imagine why someone would spend a couple of hundred bucks on a safe, and then not use it for its intended purpose. My vision had settled on the spot that the safe had occupied. Something out of place there; something not quite right. The carpet didn't appear to be tucked underneath the baseboard molding as it was around the rest of the room. I scooted over on my knees and tugged at the loose edge of the carpet. It lifted up from the floor without the hesitation you might expect if it had been nailed or glued into place. The composition board underneath had a rectangular section cut out so as to be removable. A very sloppy piece of work as the angles were off and the cuts were jagged and anything but straight. A small eyelet had been screwed into the cut out at one side and seemed to demand that I give it a pull. The hole I exposed by doing that opened to a view of the ground underneath the trailer, and just off the side of the hole and sitting on the top of the metal frame of the trailer was a grey metal box. The sort of fire-resistant box in which one could keep jewelry, or documents, or any relatively small objects.

I put on a pair of latex gloves that I kept in my jacket pocket for just this sort of purpose and lifted it out of its hiding place. The lock was one of those ridiculous things that offered little in the way of security and had no purpose except to keep the lid shut. It gave in to the awl blade of my knife with little effort.

On top was a bundle of hundred dollar bills held together by a rubber band. I guessed there must be a couple of hundred of them. Figueroa was obviously not destitute. Below the money were three, small, cloth bound notebooks. I opened the one on top and found undated entries in a sloppy hand. With some difficulty I translated the first scrawl to say that someone named Hank was going to pay some day, just you wait.

The second notebook had a dated first entry from two years ago, and the one on the bottom had a lot of blank pages remaining with the last entry dated last week. The name Cipriano was repeated several times and the same paragraph had the name Sylvester also. I gave a low whistle. Jackpot! Now I had to protect it. I replaced the contents of the box, closed the lid and put it back in its hiding place. I debated replacing the plywood cutout and carpet, but thought that there would be fewer legal challenges if a formal forensic search led to the discovery of the box. I replaced the cutout, carpet and safe, and wondered how I was going to justify being on site when the box was discovered. Then a stray thought came: Clark had said something about a connection between Figueroa and Sylvester and the kidnapping. Maybe there was something in the notebooks that might lead to learning the location of Mrs. Kelly and her daughter. I dug the box out again, went to sit at the kitchen table under the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling and started reading.

It was rough going mostly because the handwriting was all but illegible, but by the time the sky outside was lighting up with the coming dawn I had enough information to make a reasonable guess about where I might look. The last few pages of the middle book had given it away. I was tempted to look at the last and newest book, but couldn't afford the time.

After returning the box and its contents to the hiding place I called Fitzgerald, apologized for getting him out of bed so early, but told him that he needed to come back to the trailer and stay on site until the forensic team and ME had finished their work. I told him that he should make certain that they paid particular attention to the safe, and hoped that he would figure it out without my having to admit to prior knowledge about what lay underneath.

On the way out to my vehicle I walked over to where the body lay and made a cursory check of the pockets. I found keys to the Caddy and some other keys that looked like door keys, a few coins, a wallet with the usual contents, but nothing that would be helpful. Figueroa didn't look like a hardened criminal laying there with eyes open and mouth agape. He looked like a kid just out of high school who had run into a lot of bad luck.

Back in the unmarked cruiser, I radioed a request in for the forensic team and ME to handle the crime scene, and told them that Officer Fitzgerald would be on site to observe and preserve any evidence. Hopefully, nothing was going to wind up missing with him watching over the operation. By then I had put in eighteen hours without seeing a bed. I longed to correct that situation, but knew that I didn't have that option. Not since I'd read what was in the notebooks and discovered the location where the two women might be confined.

CHRIS

The low wattage bulb in the oven hood shined very little light on the papers I was trying to read. There were lots of scribbled notes in the margins of pages. I thought that most of the annotations had been made by Kurt because they were in a firm hand quite unlike the curlicues that Angelina liked to add to her writing. Thoughts of either of them interrupted my reading every few minutes whenever something in the writing brought a memory of things that happened in the not so distant past. The realization that I might be the last surviving member of our group brought a feeling of outrage that someone had deliberately ended their lives.

I was re-reading the autopsy report on Philippe Gonzalez for the third time, hoping that some new idea would pop up when I saw another similar looking sheet peeking out of the pile on the table. I didn't recall looking at that one before and when I pulled it out I wondered why it had been separated from the autopsy pages in the folder. Then I saw it was a supplemental report done a day after the first examination had been completed.

Follow up on examination concluded 9/12/2006

Unidentified Subject

Case 2006:00223:

Microscopic examination of sternum and anterior surfaces of the ribs reveals incisions into the left lateral aspect of the sternum between the third and fourth ribs consistent with penetration by a bladed implement. Position of incisions would be consistent with penetrative trauma to the aorta, right atrium or right ventricle depending upon vertical and horizontal orientation of direction of thrust. Further, such penetration would most likely result in immediate cessation of heart function and subsequent death.

Signed,

Melvin J. Knowles, Medical Examiner

Oh! I'd thought no one knew what had killed the guy or even if he was really dead before being burned up in the trunk of the red Camero. But wait, why did it read Unidentified Subject? I looked back at the main autopsy report copy. There it read:

Name: (tentative) Gonzalez, Philippe NMI Case:2006:00223

Sex: male DOB: unknown

Address: unknown

Next of Kin: unknown.

I was puzzled by the differences, but didn't know if it was even important that the name wasn't known for the subsequent examination. The two examinations were done by two different people; maybe number two guy didn't get the note about the ID. Probably not important. I finished looking at the rest of the papers and knew all the details of Kurt's investigations. What Fred had told me was likely true. Kurt had gone back to the incident report on Philippe Gonzalez that Billy had gotten from the police department and had read the note that Billy had made about his conversation with Fred on the night before he died. So he had drawn the same conclusion as Billy had about the connection between the death of Philippe Gonzalez, the red Camero, and the driver Xavier Cipriano. What Kurt didn't know was what Fred had told me: that Cipriano had taken the call from Billy instead of Fred that night. The last connection was obvious but unwelcome. The only way Cipriano could have known who Billy was and his location was if Fred told him. I suddenly felt a little woozy. That meant that for the past two years Fred had known who had killed Billy, and had not told anyone about it. The next step in deductive reasoning was that Cipriano would likely not have been able to identify Billy without some help. It was axiomatic that Fred had been along on the ride that had resulted in Billy's death.

I put the papers back in the box, but kept out the autopsy reports to show to Detective Sinclair when he came back.

The laptop sat closed on the table, and I was reluctant to turn it on because there was no AC adaptor and my experience with laptop batteries was that they burned up stored charge very fast. Still the memory stick was sitting there and I was anxious to see what was on it. Finally curiosity prevailed. The laptop took forever to load and the first screen was a log-on dialog. Uh-oh, Kurt's user name came up immediately, but a password was needed and I had absolutely no idea what they might be. I could go through the usual guesses, but I would have to be extremely lucky to hit the right combination before the battery gave out. I needed an AC adaptor.

I was mulling over the possibilities when I heard a noise at the front door. Someone was trying to unlock it. I poked my head around the corner of the living room archway, but couldn't make out anything outside through the narrow window next to the front door. I took a chance and crept into the living room trying to get a better look out front. There was a patrol car parked at the curb. Sinclair? No. He had said he would knock, and besides he told me that he would be in an unmarked car.

I panicked, thinking that disaster was lurking just outside. Without thinking of alternatives I grabbed the laptop, slammed it closed and picked up the few sheets of paper I'd put aside. The window I'd come in through was still open, and I managed to keep hold of the laptop and papers with one hand while helping myself through the window with the other. Good thing the window was only a couple of feet off the ground as making the exit maneuver with a sore arm and one hand occupied was tricky, but I did acquire a painful scrape on my back as I slid off the sill onto the ground. I was nearly at the back yard fence when lights came on in the house behind me. I looked back and saw a uniformed figure coming into the kitchen. Two seconds later I was over the chain link fence and sprinting down the alley towards my pickup.

I drove down the quiet residential streets slowly, putting distance between myself and Kurt's house. I thought about what it meant that the officer came to Kurt's house and had a key to the lock. If Sinclair knew about it, why wouldn't he have told me what to expect? Something wasn't right. I had come to trust Sinclair quickly, maybe too quickly. He was Harmon's partner, and I knew without a doubt that Harmon was in with Sylvester.

I needed a place to stay while I thought of how to proceed, but my choices were very limited. A motel would be best, but the cash in my wallet wouldn't last long if I did that. I could use my credit card, but I wondered if the danger of being tracked electronically is real or not. If you could believe the TV scripts it was something done at the drop of a hat, and always led to the discovery of the credit card user who was trying to hide. Every idea I came up with seemed to have some fatal flaw, but if I didn't do something and soon I might as well forget about doing anything. I settled for taking a cash withdrawal from my checking account and looking for a cheap motel where I could pay in cash.

It was well after midnight when I settled into a clean but primitive room. At least the TV worked and I could keep up with local news. The motel was on the elderly side. The electric outlets lacked a hole for the grounding prong on the AC adaptor I'd bought, and I wondered if the wiring was suitable to run the laptop. I was running out of options so I bent the grounding prong back and forth until it snapped off and hoped for the best.

The laptop took a long time to load the start page and while the log-on screen showed the user to be Kurt, it still demanded a password. I tried the obvious first, his birthday. No dice. Then several combinations of dates and words I thought he might have used. None of them worked. I stared at the uncooperative screen for minuets longer and then tried Billy, Kid, Angie, and Angelina. I shouldn't have been surprised that the last name worked, but I was.

The desktop icons didn't offer an easy entry to Kurt's secrets, just the standard stuff. When I clicked on the word processor program and hit the open button I was rewarded with a list of files used most recently that included a few interesting file names. Those files led to folders with additional files. There were hundreds of individual files, and I realized that to be thorough it would take hours if not days to go through them all. I was relieved when a cursory look indicated that most of them were scans of the documents from the box. I wondered if I should be using any time at all to look at them. Maybe it would be all stuff from the box that I'd seen already.

I took the memory stick from the box in Fred's trailer out of my pocket, and put it in the USB slot. The dialog box asked what I wanted to do, and I clicked on the browse option. The memory stick contained only two items. A small word processor document and a folder with many scan files in jpeg format. I opened the word processor file first.

This is my insurance policy. Take a look at the folder. You don't want this stuff in the wrong hands, and if I disappear copies are going to people who you don't want to have it.

I thought that Fred's plan had one big flaw: his policy didn't protect him from accidental death.

The jpeg files were scans of notebook pages. They were poor quality scans at that, blurry and indistinct. The handwriting on the pages was absolutely terrible as well. It was more of a scrawl than anything with some letters so poorly formed that I couldn't tell an "i" from an "l", or "o" from an "a". Some pages carried a date at the top and others did not. The scans did not appear to be in any sort of order, and the second jpeg bore no obvious relation to the first. Getting anything out of this was going to be a nightmare. I settled in at the small table in the room and began what would lead to a massive headache. I had reached a limit by 3 AM, even after a brief nap my eyes were burning and I hadn't gotten even a quarter-way through the list. I took a break and hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign out while I went across the street to a convenience store that was open all night. A super-sized cup of coffee and a Danish later my vision had more or less returned to normal. I sat there wondering if I was wasting my time with Fred's notebook, but decided that I really didn't have any choice. There was nothing else for me to do.

It was getting light in the east when I had a break. The scan showed a notebook page with a date two months previous. It told of Xavier taking him to look at a building in an old industrial area near the Chesapeake Bay. His note included the information that the place was recently acquired to provide a place to keep things and people who might be important to the boss. That tied back to a scan showing a torn page where he had drawn a rough sketch with road names and mileage from Silver Spring. I had a decision to make then, should I check out this place or should I look at more pages in case something better came up?

To be honest, I was nervous about tackling a visit alone and without backup of any sort. Again, I thought about Sinclair and whether or not I should bring him in on this. I finally decided that I'd give the notebook another half-hour, and then I would try to find the place described and take a look around. I wasn't saying I'd get out of the truck and investigate on foot, but that could be decided when I got there.

After thirty minutes, nothing as promising had come out of reading scans of Fred's most recently dated entries. The quality of the handwriting was slightly better in the newer writing, but maybe I was getting used to it and that helped to go a little faster. I was still less than half-way through the total list of scans, but I was starting to feel really guilty about not doing anything to help Angelina. I hoped that she was still breathing. Hell, I hoped I would still be breathing by the end of the day.

When I set out it was with a nervous stomach and shaking hands. I wished that I hadn't given both those guns away to Sinclair. I'm not sure what good it would have done me to keep one. More than likely I would have shot myself with it instead of a bad guy. It might have improved my courage though. I had a hunting knife and a hatchet in the tool box in the bed of the truck that I took on occasional hiking or camping trips. I'd keep those things with me at least. Maybe the bad guys would laugh so hard when they saw my armaments that I could do some damage.

The drive to the Bay took more than an hour. I found the road named 'Bay View Parkway' easily enough, but the secondary service roads to the place were low speed and not heavily traveled, and the industrial area where the building was located appeared to have been largely abandoned for years. Buildings were run down with broken windows and hanging doors. The paint consisted of graffiti of various styles and colors. The roads in the industrial complex were potholed, cracked or reduced to dirt. The one I was looking for seemed to be the most intact of the lot, but still looked as if it would fall down in a heavy wind. There weren't any vehicles parked anywhere nearby, and I drove slowly around the complex to see if there was any company I should watch out for. Nothing.

The building on the opposite side of the paved loading area in front of the target building had open bay doors. I decided to leave the truck inside where it would be more difficult to see from the road or parking lot. I supposed that meant I was going to look around on foot. It was full daylight by then, but the inside of the building might be dark. The idea of wandering around in an unfamiliar building in the dark did not appeal to me. I took out a larger flashlight from the glove box and checked the batteries. The light was pretty dim. It probably would not last very long. One last look around, and it seemed still deserted and quiet so I crossed the parking lot and tried the first door. Locked. Why should that be? The place was a derelict. I began to worry some more about being alone. A locked door meant that someone still had an interest in the place and might show up at any moment. Come on, get a grip! I worked my way around the perimeter of the building. It was quite large. Maybe a hundred-fifty feet on a side with only one window set next to the locked door. A second door was near the corner of the building, and also was locked.

I rounded the building and saw an unbroken expanse of wall, not a door and not a window to be seen. About half way along that wall, I found a place where rain water from a broken gutter at the eaves had come down with enough force to wash out a basin at the building foundation, undercutting the concrete floor. It had collapsed into the wallow leaving a space between the floor and wall about a foot wide. Not an especially appealing entry way, but at least it wasn't locked. I stuck my head in and looked up at the floor where it had not collapsed. I thought it looked safe enough, and decided to try getting into the building by this route. It worked pretty well until something caught the back of my shirt and ripped it as I was moving the rear half of my body into the opening. I felt the metal of the wall score my back just above the belt line in the same place I been scratched by Kurt's window. I jerked to free my shirt from the snag. Shit! That's going to bleed. Losing patience with going slowly I pushed myself up and looked over the top of the floor into the room beyond. Hard to make out anything in the darkness, but there were a few shapes that might have been machinery of one sort or another standing in a line from right to left. All was still and quiet, even as I strained to hear anything moving nearby I found that my breathing was the loudest thing around.

I decided to take a chance on turning on the flashlight I'd brought. Immediately the indeterminate shapes resolved into turbine-looking machines. I had no idea what they might be for or do. Cobwebs covered every surface. It had been a long time since housekeeping had made a tour through the room. Beyond the machines the room extended as far as my light would reach, and I slowly advanced into that shadowy area. More machines stood in a second row, and looked identical to those in the first row. The scrap value of all that metal must be large, and I wondered how the machines had escaped being salvaged. Beyond the second row of machines my light found a vertical surface, which turned out to be the far wall of the room. A double metal door stood open off to the left and was the only connection to other rooms I could see. A stairway just next to the doors led to some unseen upper level.

If Angelina and her mother were in this building they must be in another room, but I had only gone through a quarter of the area of the building. I didn't know if there were upper floors or a basement that might be possible places of confinement. I was nervous about going even farther into the building, but knew I had no choice. I stuck my head through the double door and shined the light down a corridor that stretched out in either direction. It was even darker in the corridor and my dim light failed to illuminate anything except the concrete floor and corrugated steel walls. There was no reason to think one direction was any better than the other so I turned left down the corridor. A few steps down the hall and I came even with a doorway on the right opening into another room of unknown size. The door was open, and my flashlight revealed a totally empty space. The room was about fifty feet square and windowless. But there was a garage door in the far wall and I could see faint light around the sides. It must open onto some sort of loading area I thought. I returned to the corridor and continued in the same direction. I thought I had walked nearly halfway to the end of the building where another doorway opened on the right. A second room much like the last, garage door in the far wall also. At least there were other possible routes of escape. I went over to the garage door and checked for locks. None that I could see, so I tried lifting the door and was rewarded by a loud screech of metal against metal. OK, that was nerve shattering. I stopped to listen for responding noises. Nothing at first, but then a distant noise of a motor. It was getting noticeably louder while I listened. Someone was coming.

Fighting the sudden upwelling of panic, I considered my options. If whoever was coming had this building as a destination, there were two doors that I knew of, one at the opposite corner of the building and the second almost directly opposite of my location at the corner of the room I'd come in through. I wouldn't be in the direct line of sight from either entryway, so I could wait to see, or rather hear, which area I should avoid.

The sound of the motor increased steadily, and then, as it reached a maximum ceased abruptly. It must be stopped just outside the building. Then came the voices, muted and distant but unmistakably two different voices. A door rattled as if being opened, but it was not at this end of the building. I didn't like my current position. I needed a fast way out and the garage door wasn't going to open without making a lot of noise. It would be best to wait in the first room I'd entered; at least there I could scramble out the hole in the floor with minimal noise.

The short walk up the hallway to the double door seemed to take forever. I expected someone to appear at the far end of the corridor at any instant. Once inside the large room I made my way to the wall which I thought must separate this room from the room that had the exterior door. The voices came again, this time louder and more distinct, but I still could not make out individual words. I felt my way along the wall to the corner it made with the exterior wall and pressed an ear against it. No noise at all for a few seconds, and then almost as loud as if they were in the same room a deep voice came through the metal of the wall.

"Mickey you should stay here and keep a lookout for anything outside. I think the boss is going to be here in a few minutes. I'll go back and get the women to the potty one more time."

"Sure thing, Sal. You handle the potty break and I'll keep you covered. You get off on that don't you? The young one is nice looking, so I suppose you give her a lot of personal supervision."

"Shut up, you know what the boss said. No hanky-panky. You should pay more attention to following orders, some day it's going to bite you on the ass."

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, tell me again. What are we doing here with these women? Why don't we just get it done and be on our way?"

"What? You deaf? Sylvester said that they are bait for Freddy and that other guy, whatshisname—uh Christopher?"

"I thought it was Chris."

"Well, ain't that short for Christopher?"

"Whatever, just go do your bathroom duty."

I scurried back to the double doors without making noise and peeked around the corner in time to see the deep-voice guy, Sal I now knew, open a locked door twenty feet or so down the hallway. He was carrying a large lantern that lit up the hallway all the way to a far wall. He said something to whomever was in the locked room, and made a gesturing motion with his hand. As he moved his hand the light glinted off metal. A gun.

Someone came out of the room in response to his order and I felt a thrill go through me as I recognized Angelina. She walked ahead of the man toward the far end of the hallway. He shut the door and followed her closely; lighting her way down the corridor. Angelina opened a door on the right hand side of the corridor and disappeared inside. The man held the light so that it shined into the room she'd entered. A few minutes later I heard the distant sound of a toilet flushing. The man with the lantern and gun moved sideways to make room as Angelina came out of what I knew now was a bathroom. There was a sudden movement of Angelina's arm followed by a shout of surprise and pain. The man dropped the lantern and the gun discharged. A spark from the ricocheted bullet flared off of the floor just in front of me.

Seconds later the guy who had remained in the entry room rushed out of the doorway into the corridor. His hand raised and pointed toward Angelina, again the light glinted off metal and I realized that he was about to fire in her direction. He was too far to reach in time and without thinking about it I stepped out into the hallway, took the hatchet from my belt and threw it with as much force as I could muster. There was a solid "thunk' and the second guy collapsed onto his face.

I hoped that there weren't three of them. I didn't think I had any luck left at that point, and no weapon except the hunting knife. I ran towards Angelina, stopping only to pick up the pistol that the second guy had dropped on the floor. I found her collapsed on the floor at the doorway to the bathroom. The deep-voice man lay in front of her and the light from his lantern showed a rapidly spreading pool of blood. It was coming from his throat where a conical piece of metal stuck out like the broad end of an ice cream cone. Angelina was staring at the blood and seemed to be incapable of moving.

"Angelina!" I shouted, trying to get her attention. "Angelina, come on! Stand up! Let's get your mother and get out of here!"

"What? Chris? Is that you Chris? Where did you come from?"

"Angelina! No time for explanations. Come on, get up! Let's get your mother."

She was shaky at first as she stood and grabbed my shoulder. I held her tight for an instant and then pushed her in the direction of the doorway she'd come out of. I picked up the lantern and lifted the second gun that lay in the pool of blood. I pointed the light at deep-voice's face and saw a blank stare.

I went into the doorway of Angelina's cell and pointed the lantern inside. The light fell on Mrs. Kelly. She was lying on her side with her legs drawn up into her chest and Angelina was shaking her shoulder.

It didn't take long to see that Mrs. Kelly wasn't going to respond to Angelina's attempts to rouse her. I handed the lantern to Angelina and got my hands under the older woman's armpits. I was surprised how light she was as I pulled her to a standing position. Still unresponsive, she made no attempt to stand on her own. I picked her up and carried her like a child out the door and toward where the second man still lay unmoving.

Angelina pointed the lantern light at his face and I could see that his eyes were closed and mouth was open. His chest was moving slightly in and out and it was obvious that he was still alive and breathing. I asked Angelina to pick up my hatchet from where it lay on the floor near the man's head. I didn't see any blood. I wondered how long we had before he regained consciousness.

We looked around the door jamb into the entry office, but there was no one else. Breathing a sigh of relief, I took the lead with Mrs. Kelly still in my arms and walked to the front door. There was a silver SUV parked just outside. The driver's side door was open and the front passenger area was empty. There didn't appear to be anyone else to worry about.

We stepped down from the office door onto pavement. Angelina made for the SUV, but I stopped her and told her to cross the parking area to the building where I'd left my own truck. It was where I'd left it and apparently hadn't been disturbed. I got Mrs. Kelly settled into the middle of the bench seat and told Angelina to get in next to her. I had a sudden thought, and re-crossed the parking area to the SUV where I used the hunting knife on all four tires. That took longer than I wanted, and I looked at the office door every few seconds expecting an angry man to exit with murder in mind. When I got back to the truck, Angelina gave me an enquiring look as I climbed into the driver's seat and started the motor.

"I thought it would be good to slow down any response to our getting away. How are you Angelina? Are you injured in any way?"

She was slow to answer, and said in a small voice, "I think I'm OK. I ache all over from lying on concrete for days, and I'm cold, thirsty and hungry, but Mama is in bad shape. Chris we need to get her to a doctor. She still hasn't said anything, and I can barely get her to look at me."

"We will, Angelina, but I am worried about keeping away from whoever else is tied up with those two men. That Sylvester fellow is supposed to show up here sometime soon."

"How do you know that?"

"I heard them talking before they went to take you to the bathroom. Angelina they were holding you there as hostages. I was supposed to get Fred and bring him to someplace to hand over to Sylvester and you two were going to be hurt if I didn't."

"Fred is the reason we're here, and I know that, but how do you know it?"

"I'll explain everything I know, but right now we need to get out of here and find some place to keep out of sight."

"Mama needs a doctor, Chris." Her tone was insistent. "We need to take her to an emergency room."

"Angelina, I don't think we can take that chance. The doctor will want to report your mother's abuse to the police, and not all police can be trusted. I know that for a fact Angelina. We need to find another way to help her, and I think I have an idea of how to do that without attracting attention."

I could tell that Angelina had doubts about following my lead, but she didn't offer any alternative immediately so I started the engine and slowly drove out of the industrial complex keeping an eye out for other vehicles coming from the opposite direction. It took less time heading back towards home as I used the high speed routes instead of back roads, but it still was a longer trip than I liked. Where to head for was the question. My house was definitely out, as were Kurt's place and the Kelly residence. I finally settled on returning to the motel room I'd stayed in the previous night. I'd prepaid in cash for three days and hadn't been asked for ID when I registered. That was as safe as things were going to be for the time being.

Once settled into the room. I called out for a pizza from a nearby chain store that delivered, and asked for it to be brought to the room along with soft drinks. The next call was potentially more dangerous, but necessary. Heather had left a card with me just in case something went wrong with the dressing she'd put on my bullet wound. I hoped to hell I could trust her, even if I had some doubts about Sinclair. Mrs. Kelly might pull out of it on her own, but we weren't going to be able to move as quickly as we might need to until she did. Maybe Heather wasn't as good a choice as a doctor, but certainly she could offer some treatment.

Rather than explain the situation honestly, because Heather might have doubts about involving herself in a new situation, I told her my wound had opened up and needed new stitches. She was a bit hesitant even so since I had called and not Sinclair, but after a bit of pleading agreed to come to the motel and help me out.

Heather arrived just moments after the pizza had been delivered. I could see the doubt in her eyes when she saw Mrs. Kelly lying on the bed and Angelina sitting beside her and holding her hand.

"So Chris," Heather said, "you told me that your arm needed treatment. What is this all about?"

"I thought you might have not agreed to come if I told you what we really needed. Even so, I was nervous about calling you because I'm not sure about Sinclair. And if I'm not sure about Sinclair, that makes me unsure about you. But, she needs your help, and we don't have any choice."

"What has happened to her? Did you do something to her?"

"No! Her name is Kelly and Angelina is her daughter. She was held by kidnappers for several days, and while she doesn't seem to have any physical injuries, she hasn't said a word since we got her away from them."

"So you and Angelina rescued her from her captors?"

"Well, not exactly. Angelina was also held by the kidnappers also."

"You rescued both of them from kidnappers?"

I could tell that she had her doubts about that possibility. That was understandable; I'm not exactly the Rambo type.

"I got lucky, and Angelina did her part in the escape. I couldn't have done it on my own."

That news didn't seem to reconcile her doubts to any great degree, and looking at Angelina—disheveled and dirty with a tear-streaked face—I could understand.

"Chris," Heather said, "have you talked to Guy about this?"

"Guy? Who's Guy?" I was confused.

"Guy Sinclair, Detective Sinclair."

"Oh, he didn't tell me his first name. No, I called you directly because I wondered about him being part of our problem."

"Look, Guy Sinclair is one of the best cops I've ever known, and I've known him for nearly fifteen years. He told me that he was having doubts about his partner and maybe one or two others in the department, so I understand where you are coming from, but you are wrong about him. I'll do what I can for the woman, but you need to call Guy. Not later, now!"

I had to trust someone. It might as well be Heather, and by extension Detective Sinclair. I looked at Angelina, and she gave me a small smile. OK then. That's what I would do. I dug out Sinclair's card from my wallet, and dialed the cell phone number. I wasn't about to trust the police switchboard yet. His voicemail came on telling me that I could talk to the machine. I felt a little uncertain about that. Was it secure? I decided to do an end run, and left a message saying that Heather needed to talk to him.

ANGELINA

The day Billy died, I was angry with him for spending too much time on his seminar studies and not enough on us. I didn't say goodbye that morning. I didn't kiss him goodbye. I didn't tell him to have a good day. I didn't say "I love you". I didn't watch him walk out the door, and I didn't sense the moment he died. All those things I didn't do stayed with me for months and months. A reminder of how I failed him at the end. I cried and felt like dying myself. I might even have done something to join him, but I had the baby to think of. Then, two months later I lost the baby. A girl they told me, but they wouldn't tell me why she died, too. I never said "Hello". I never said "I love you." I never held her tight and told her about her father. If my mother had not been with me I would have joined them both. She wouldn't let me. She said and did all those things I did not do, and she kept me alive. She made me leave the house and breathe the air and feel the Sun.

One day I came in from a walk and found Kurt waiting in the living room. He had called and asked my mother how I was doing, and she told him that I needed a friend. I didn't know that I needed a friend until then. She was right. We talked all afternoon and most of the night, and by the time he left in the early morning every memory we had of Billy was a shared memory. I saw a lot of Kurt after that. We never acted like more than good friends. That would have been too much for me. I know that Kurt was holding in what he might be feeling, but he never pressed me for anything more, anything deeper.

There came a time when hurt changed to anger. Anger at whoever had taken Billy from me. Anger that no one had paid a price for that crime. Kurt saw the anger building, and he seemed to intuit why. One day, after we had spent some time in the nearby park, he asked me to look at some things he had at home. When I saw it I nearly lost it all over again. It was the box in which Billy had stored all the study material from that seminar I had come to hate. I would have railed against Kurt then, for making me look back to that time of pain, but he looked at me and said those words that began the next part of my life.

"The reason Billy was killed that day is in this box. I don't yet know what it is, or how it caused his death, but the only way you will rid yourself of that anger is to try and find the answers. I would like to help. Billy was my friend, and I think you know that you are more than a friend to me. Let's do this together."

I didn't know how he knew the box had anything to do with Billy's death. And, sometimes, I think that maybe he didn't know. I think that the box was only a way to get me to unload the anger onto something outside myself. It worked. All too well it worked. Within a week we were both spending all our spare time digging through the box and trying to find ways to expand on what we found there. We weren't above bending, if not outright breaking, privacy laws and obtaining records that were not meant to be public. I don't know how Kurt obtained the official autopsy reports of the man who had been in the Camero, but it might have been bribery of a civil servant. It was the Camero that tied it all together. I don't know if it was Kurt or me who first remembered that day on Fuller Street when the dog was killed, and the time much later when Fred told us who he saw behind the wheel. And then there was the time after that when Xavier Cipriano kind of threatened us at school. It was that instant when we came to the same conclusion that Billy must have reached, and knew that we had to talk to Fred. When I left to go home that evening, Kurt and I had decided that we would contact Fred the next day and get what we could out of him.

But, Kurt didn't wait for the next day, and now they say he is dead and my mother and I are in this place waiting for something terrible to happen. It is an awful, dark, smelly, moldy, damp place with high corrugated steel walls and a locked steel door. There isn't any furniture, not even a single stool to sit on just the cold concrete floor. They gave us food and water the first day and took us to the horrid little bathroom, water the second day and a trip to the bathroom, on the third day there was nothing, and now on what must be the fourth day nothing still. I don't know what they are waiting for—why they don't just have done with us. When she was still talking, Mother said they must have some use for us and that's why we are still alive. I suppose she must be right. Either that or they are just going to forget about us and let us die on our own in the dark.

I think it must be me. First Billy, then Kurt, then my mother. It's a good thing that Chris stayed out of my life or he would have paid the price, too.

I thought about scratching a note in the concrete floor in a corner where they would not see it. Telling the world about Fred, that bastard Fred, and his friends. Especially that Sylvester person, he must be truly evil. If I had a weapon, even the poorest weapon one could imagine, and I could face him alone, my last act in this world would be to tear out his eyes and then kill him in the slowest way I could imagine. I know that he is responsible for all of it. His minions, including the bastard Fred, were following his orders. I know that without a doubt. But I don't have a weapon, just a piece of sheet metal I found lying in the corner of the room. It bends easily, and you couldn't cut paper with it, but I would find a way even with this little piece of metal to kill that devil.

I found Mama in the dark by searching around with my hands over the smooth concrete floor. She hasn't said anything for days now. Her skin is cool and clammy. Her breathing is slow and raspy, and it scares me. I sit and listen for that faint clank of metal that announces them coming back. But the silence is as deep as the darkness that surrounds us. No sounds, not even the scurrying of a mouse.

I take the piece of sheet metal in both hands and try to bend it, to make it stronger. A little at a time it yields, and even though my hands are bleeding now I force it into a roll, a tapered metal needle with a pointed end and a sharp spiral of metal at the other end. It is slippery with my blood, but I think it is a better weapon now. I picture it going into Sylvester's eye making him blind and terrified.

SINCLAIR

It took a long while to decipher the notebooks. I nearly gave it up once or twice, but the thought that some good information could come out of it keep me turning pages. I came to understand that Fred had grown up under difficult circumstances. Not that having parents who weren't worth a damn could excuse him, but at least it made it possible to read his motives and maybe predict his behavior to some degree. Fred had definitely been a user of other people, and when something went wrong it was never his fault. His last escapade was certainly the most complicated of his schemes to go wrong, and this one went terribly wrong.

If his writing could be believed, his immediate boss and mentor Xavier Cipriano had been involved in the murder nearly six years previously of the then current gangland boss Philippe Gonzalez. I'd been a patrolman at the time and remembered the noise going around the department about something big happening. I wouldn't find out until a couple of years later that Gonzalez had developed contacts in the department, and those contacts were inherited by Gonzalez' successor. By then, I had big suspicions about which of my colleagues were in gangland's pockets, but proof was hard to come by. Fred's notebooks gave confirmation of two identities, maybe not strongly enough to be actionable by the DA, but enough to warrant deeper investigation by Internal Affairs. Hopefully, none of the IA people were involved.

I glanced at a dozen or so pages of Fred's newest notebook, but after those few pages of scribbles the pages were blank. Fred's notes seemed to indicate that Xavier had become dissatisfied with his new boss, Sylvester Martin, and thought he could do a better job. Xavier had engaged Fred in plans for an ambush and killing of Martin, but did not understand how duplicitous Fred could be. Instead, Fred had caught Xavier unawares one night and shot him in his bed, then intended to pin the killing on Chris Clarke. That part was hard to explain until I had learned about Fred's history with his group of school chums, and how Xavier had been involved in the killings of Billy Morton and maybe Kurt Dawson. Given that history and the fact that Billy and later Kurt had gotten enough information together to implicate Xavier in Gonzalez' death made it somewhat believable.

I knew by then that the unread pages might contain a wealth of information about the local crime scene, but there was no time to read them all.

I didn't know how Fred's death would affect Martin's treatment of the women, but thought that he couldn't know about it yet. I'd kept a tight lid on it with only Fitzgerald in the loop. Of course, that would change as soon as the forensic team and ME put their findings on record when the murder site investigation had been concluded. Worst case scenario was that I'd only have a few hours today to find the women and prevent anything happening to them.

The big part that was missing was the location at which Angelina and her mother were being held. Fred's last entry simply said they were at the usual place and that he was doing something to get himself out of trouble with his boss. I flipped back to the beginning pages of Fred's newest notebook and lucked out. He wrote about a property that had been purchased for purposes requiring solitude and deep cover. Even then, the location was not clearly identified. The answer came when a piece of scrap paper fell out from the back cover of the notebook. There was a penciled sketch showing the general location of a warehouse in an industrial area along the Chesapeake Bay. Eventually, smart phone web access to the County Assessor records gave up three or four likely possibilities for the warehouse that were separated from each other by several miles. Two of those were apparently in receivership, the third was active, and the fourth had recently been purchased by an LLC that I traced through a Corporation Commission paper trail to an attorney known to have ties to local drug gangs.

The trip to the property took little time by freeway, but I had decided to wait for Fitzgerald to show up as backup. He was going to get the ME and forensic team started on the site; and then meet me. That left the evidence chain of custody unprotected and open to tampering, but getting the women out of trouble took precedence. There simply weren't enough trustworthy people to go around. He should have been here a half hour ago. I tried to call him on the cell, but found there was no service. Must be the last place without service on the East Coast! I moved to a slightly higher location and tried again. Success, and just then the cell chimed and I saw Fitzgerald's number on the screen. There were also a couple of messages waiting. First things first, the messages would have to wait. I answered Fitzgerald's call and gave him directions to my location. He was only five minutes out.

I was stowing my cell phone when a tow truck followed by a blue Mercedes passed my location behind the boarded up freight yard office. They were headed in the direction of the warehouse I'd identified as the possible target. Not good. When Fitzgerald arrived moments later we talked over plans, and set out on foot to reconnoiter the property. Both of us were wearing rough looking clothes and were hoping to be taken for hobos or some such if we were spotted. We worked our way to an abandoned building on the opposite side of a paved area between us and the target building. The Mercedes, tow truck and another vehicle were parked in front of the target. Two men stood by the front of the tow truck and three others were talking to a fourth man standing just in front of a door at the front of the target building. That one was gesticulating wildly and we could hear him shouting. The best dressed of the three put an arm on his shoulder and got him calmed down sufficiently that we could no longer make out any words. What we'd heard was very instructive. The women were gone, his partner was dead, and he didn't know what had happened. I looked at Fitzgerald and motioned him back to a place where we could have our own discussion.

"Officer Fitzgerald, it appears that the rescue has occurred without our intervention. The question that remains is what our best course of action might be. I would posit that two against six are not the ideal odds for us, even though I count you as being equal to any three of them. I think that it is time for a raid by the SWAT team, what do you think?"

"Sir, your interpretation seems to cover the most important details, and I find my curiosity has been satisfied for the time being. If you want to return to your vehicle and give SWAT a call, I'll continue to monitor the situation."

"Fitzgerald, if I haven't mentioned it before, I think you will go far."

I returned to my unmarked car and called in for support. A half hour they said, and a helicopter would drop four SWAT team members at our location. The armored vehicle would follow but wouldn't be there for at least an hour, even at top speed. I crossed my fingers and went to join Fitzgerald for the wait.

Forty-five minutes later we were still waiting for the sound of a chopper. I walked back to the place where service existed and called in to see what was going on. Lieutenant Siegel said that a 'small' mix up had occurred and the SWAT team had mistakenly been given orders to stand down. What did I want to do? The blue Mercedes, tow truck hooked to the Silver SUV passed my location at a high rate of speed headed in the direction of the 495, and Fitzgerald came to stand behind me while I contemplated my response.

It is possible that Lieutenant Siegel did not deserve to suffer through what I said for him to do next, but he made no comment.

Fitzgerald and I drove our vehicles to the door of the warehouse. The door was locked, but the hinges seemed to be quite rusty and failed under gentle pressure. Not that our examination yielded anything of interest. There was a large wet spot on the concrete floor just outside a bathroom off the main hallway. One of the rooms off the hallway seemed to have a musty, urine smell that the others did not have. Nothing more seemed to be out of order, but then Fitzgerald called me over to a hole in the floor at the end of the building at one side of a machine-filled room. His flashlight picked out a red stain on the jagged bottom edge of the sheet metal exterior wall of the building. A small piece of cloth was caught on the edge just next to the stain. Fitzgerald surprised me by taking a small evidence vial out of his pocket and scraping a sample of the red stain and then an envelope for the cloth.

I declined to comment. Fitzgerald's head was getting big enough as it was.

I sat in my vehicle outside the warehouse and contemplated what to do next. Nothing immediately came to mind so I checked the messages on my voice mail. One from my supervisor asking me to stop by and have a chat as soon as possible. That did not sound encouraging. The second was a male voice I did not recognize saying that Heather needed to talk to me. I waved Fitzgerald over to my car and asked him to hang around a few minutes longer. I called Heather, but got only her voice mail. I left a message to give me a call, and got out of the car.

"Officer Fitzgerald, it is possible that some rather unpleasant business will be coming my way in the next few hours. I have no authority to order you to take on extra duties, and truth be known you would most likely be much better off by ignoring any request I might make of you, but if you are willing to take a chance I could use your help."

"Sir, you might be interested to know that I was approached this morning just as I logged in to work by Sergeant McGuire. He asked me why I was reporting to you instead of him, and I told him that I was acting on the assumption that you had his approval for my assistance. He then said he would speak to you about it, and said I should make every effort to keep my tail out of trouble. Since you made it clear that potential turncoats had not been identified I thought it prudent not to discuss our activities. I will say, Sir, that I do not believe I could maintain my self-respect if I believed I had done anything to jeopardize the integrity of my position in the department, junior though it might be. I would not be averse to continuing to assist in any way I may. I would greatly appreciate a heads up as to consequences, however."

"Fitzgerald, I am quite certain that given a chance, you will go far. FYI and confidential, I am operating under orders from the Office of the Mayor by way of Captain Spear who, by the way, seems to know a good deal about you. The presence of one or more bad apples in the department has been known for more than a year, and it is my job to gather sufficient evidence for indictment and prosecution. I have notified Captain Spear of your assistance in this matter and have been assured that you will be protected from adverse consequences. As you know, that does not, cannot, protect you from retribution by your peers if they should come to believe you are ratting them out.

"Having said that, I will bring others into our confidence as soon as I am convinced they are not involved in whatever illegal network may exist. Of course, if I think they may spill the beans about my investigation regardless of their own non-involvement that won't happen. Right now, it's you and me—or just me if that's the way it has to be."

"Yes Sir, I understand all that. I'm with you, but if I ignore Sergeant McGuire I may find myself on report. Do you have any idea of the time required to finish the job?"

"Impossible to say Fitzgerald. I wish I knew. We could get lucky at any time or it could stretch over many more months. I greatly appreciate your candor. You have my word that I will do my best to keep you in good graces with the powers that be. For now, maybe it would be best to get back to your normal assignment. No need to check in with McGuire. I'll give him a call and tell him I've released you back to normal duties."

"Yes Sir, thank you Sir. My posted schedule has me patrolling downtown today and tomorrow."

After Fitzgerald left I started the drive back to the station. I wasn't looking forward to questions from Murphy or anyone else, but not showing up would be worse. I made it to within a couple of blocks of the station when my cell buzzed. It was Heather.

SYLVESTER MARTIN

You think it's easy running a business like mine? Hell no it isn't! Constantly I get problems stacked on top of problems. Used to be a guy could count on people, they had loyalty. You told them to do something, it got done. The right way! First damn time! Now, now even little twerps think they can make a move on me and not suffer the consequences. Used to be just a word in the right ear would get results. Now you got to stuff a wad of greenbacks into the ear before you talk to it. None of that respect guys like me used to get. Not like the old days. Everybody's a lawyer now; they tell me "If I do that, then this will happen. Don't you think it would be better to do this instead of that?"

What happened to people shutting up and taking orders? If I had a brain I'd move to someplace where things worked the right way. Someplace where jerks like Freddy Figueroa are treated like the dog shit they are. I mean, now get this—This little shit Freddy tells me that some guy I never heard of offed Xavier because he found out that Xavier knocked off a couple of his friends. OK, I say, that is not good. I mean, I knew that Xavier was having these problems keeping a low profile after helping out with Philippe. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, you know? Maybe he could have been a little more on the subtle side, but Jeez that's not Xavier. Subtle he was never. Now what? My right hand is gone, and not one of these guys that hang on around here is worth a damn. Xavier was a guy I counted on to get things done. Now what am I going to do?

I don't know how Xavier was put down by this unknown guy. Freddy says this unknown guy knows this gal who was the girlfriend of that Billy whatever that got under Xavier's skin. So, OK, I nab the girl and her mother for good measure to make sure the guy comes around to talk to me. Then--get this! Then, as I talk to the girl to find out what she knows, she tells me she doesn't think this Chris guy had anything to do with Xavier having that little problem. No! Instead she says it must be Freddy who did that thing to Xavier! I mean I damn near had a conniption right then and there. Some little punk shit like Freddy does a guy like Xavier! Unheard of!

OK, so right then and there I changed the rules. This guy Chris whatever needs to bring me Freddy and then we'll talk about him, Freddy, the girl, the girl's mother, how things are going in the neighborhood, all the important stuff. I send him a message he can't mistake, and tell him what to do. After he does that, then maybe, we'll see, maybe he gets to walk or maybe he don't. Same for the other two, maybe they walk, maybe they don't. A guy has to have a good feeling about something like that. You can't make promises without having the feeling, you know? Freddy? Forget about it! Freddy needs a serious attitude adjustment.

Then I get this call out of the blue! The two boys I sent out to prep the two broads for my visit had a problem one of them says. What kind of problem I ask? And he says that he can't find the two women anywhere, and that maybe somebody popped him one and he lost consciousness, and to make matters worse that this same somebody, maybe, did in his partner Sal! Damn amateurs! All of them! I ask him, did he look around and he says he will, but he just woke up and wanted to let me know right away. What a genius! Did these two women get away in his ride I ask? No, he says because it has four flat tires. Save me from idiots! Please! So I say, they got away in some other mode of transport? And he says, get this, "well I guess that makes sense". Sense! That block of wood don't have any sense! Then, I round up some boys and a tow and I go out there to this place Xavier set up. And there he is, the block of wood, and he says "I did what you said and looked around but there ain't nothing to see." You understand now what kind of material I've got to work with? Nincompoops, blocks of wood, empty heads, you name it, I got it on the payroll.

Now, get this! Yesterday I find out that maybe some dick is snooping around my boys in the department downtown. How do I know? How else, my boy Hammy Harmon tells me, that's how I know. But Hammy's being cute. He don't say who it is exactly. I make a special trip to see him, give him a little extra for the month, make sure he has my best interests at heart. And still he don't tell me who. What'd I tell you, nobody gives respect anymore. Not like it used to be. For half a buck, I'd weigh anchor and sail to Bermuda or some other wet, green place where I could relax, sit back, watch the girls on the beach, kind of retire.

Nah! Not for me. Sylvester Martin is not a quitter! I spent too much time and sweat to give this up already. Like my old man used to say, one step at a time, and if you don't fall down then you take another. You know what happens if you fall down, he asked? The guy behind you steps on your back on the way to the head of the line, he said. My old man, I miss him. Nothing is like what it was in his day. He had it easy.

So enough of this bleeding heart stuff. Talking to myself don't get the job done.

"Hey you, wake up! You listening? Damn well better be. You give Hammy a call and tell him all the stops are out. This girl and her mother--they know way too much and are out of control. A guy could get hurt with what they know. You can't keep everybody on the string. There's always one or two who think they have a mission in life. They're the worst kind, can't be reasoned with, you got to take some more permanent action. So, you call Hammy and tell him to find those two women, not tomorrow, not the day after, but today and no excuses. Tell him, you got all these guys on your payroll who are trained to find people. Use them. Tell him to find those two women, tell him to find Freddy, tell him to find this guy Chris whatever, but most of all tell him to put a ring around this snoop in the department who's trying to put me out of business. Ain't nobody going to walk over my back! You tell him that, too! Now get the hell out of here."

SINCLAIR

All three of them were still in the motel room. Much as Heather had described, the older woman was lying on the bed, fully dressed and staring at the ceiling. She didn't even look at me when I came into the room. The young woman was clearly startled by my appearance, but calmed down when Chris told her who I was. Chris had a harried look and his clothes were even more the worse for wear. I could see that his shirt had been ripped open on one side. The cloth looked familiar to me, and I thought we could save the money that might have been spent on the DNA run on the blood sample Fitzgerald had taken at the warehouse. Soon enough we were all settled onto the available seating, Angelina with her mother on the bed, Chris and I on the two chairs provided by the motel.

"I came as soon as I could, Chris. That was you who left the message on my cell, right?"

"Yes it was," he said, "Heather was insistent that I call you. But I have to say, I had my doubts then and maybe still do. We have to trust someone; we would be totally lost on our own and I think there is still a lot of danger for us out there."

"Chris," I replied, "you have it right. I obviously can't prove my trustworthiness to you simply by telling you I'm a good guy, but I hope that you can give me the opportunity to try."

"Detective, if that weren't the case we wouldn't have been here waiting for you. Mostly we're here because Heather says you're OK. Heather seems to be on the right side, I think that if she wasn't, my bullet wound would have been brought to the attention of other cops or the bad guys by now. What we most want to know is how you are going to keep us from getting killed by the Sylvester mob."

"How about some introductions first? I know that you are Christopher Clark, who are your friends?"

"My name is Angelina Kelly," said the younger woman, "and this is my mother, Virginia Kelly. We live together on Grove Street in Wheaton. Dad died years ago and I don't have any boyfriends anymore, and all our relatives live in other states. We had a dog named Bunny, but I saw one of the men who took us hit her over the head with a gun. I don't know if she is still alive, because we haven't been anywhere near our house since then."

I thought I might avoid telling her about the dead dog in her house for the moment. She clearly didn't need any more bad news today.

"Heather said that your mother was apparently in shock, Angelina. I can see that she is not fully with us, but Heather also said that it is very likely she will gradually come to react to her surroundings over the next day or so. Just be patient, give her all the attention you can and talk to her. Heather said that would be the best treatment. That and making sure she stays hydrated."

"Yes," Angelina replied, "Heather gave me detailed instructions before she left. I think Mama already has made some improvement. Before, she just lay there with her knees pulled up to her chin and her eyes closed."

"Good. How about you, Angelina? Any injuries that need treatment?"

"Not that you can see, Detective Sinclair. Oh, I've got a few bruises and cuts from rough handling, and my hands are a mess, but they aren't serious injuries. And, I gave better than I got."

"How do you mean?"

"I probably shouldn't be admitting it to a policeman, but I think I killed one of the men who were watching over us. I wanted it to be Sylvester, but he wasn't there."

"How did you do that, Angelina?"

"I found a piece of metal in the room where they were holding us and I shaped it into a kind of weapon with a sharp point on one end. The man was taking me to use the bathroom and when I came out he didn't pay very good attention to me, so I stabbed him in the neck. I was aiming for his eye."

"Ah, that explains the wet spot on the floor. They must have cleaned up after you. I can't promise you anything, but from what I've heard and seen, I doubt that anyone will want to charge you. It's possible that even if he is dead, the body will never be found. I would like to hear the details about how you and your mother were taken from your home, and what was done to you while you were being held. Are you able to do that?"

"I'll try," she said, "but it's all kind of jumbled up in my head. It happened pretty fast. I answered the doorbell that morning and was surprised to see Fred Figueroa standing on our porch. I don't think I'd seen him for years, since just after high school graduation when he had a party to celebrate. Even before I got to ask him what he was doing there, two other men ran up the porch stairs and forced their way into the house.

Fred, God how I hate that man now! Fred held my arms, while one of the others put tape over my mouth and tied my hands behind my back. They used those plastic ties, you know? It hurt a lot it was so tight. Then he and the other man I didn't know went into the kitchen where my mother was making coffee. I heard her scream, and the dog bark. They came out holding my mother between them and Bunny was hanging on to one of their pants legs with her teeth until he hit her over the head. I heard her whimper and then she was quiet. Mama tried to fight them off, but they were too strong and a minute later she was gagged and tied up just like me.

Fred led us out to a big SUV that had been pulled up onto the driveway, and they forced us into the back seat. Then they put pillowcases over our heads. We drove for nearly an hour I think, until the SUV stopped and they turned the engine off. I thought we must be near the coast because I smelled that sort of sea weedy, rotten smell that you get when the tide goes out. They didn't take the pillowcases off until they pushed us into that room where we stayed until we escaped last night.

"That's when Chris saved my life. No, you did Chris! I saw that guy aim a gun at me and he would have pulled the trigger if you hadn't hit him when you did."

"OK, we'll get to that in a minute," I said, "what happened to you while you were locked in the room?"

"Really, not much. The same two guys came back the first night with a bag of burgers and some water. They led us out one after the other to use the bathroom at the end of the hall. It was always dark in there so I couldn't see anything except what showed up in the light of the lantern they carried. I hated that part. They left the bathroom door open while I was in there and the light showed everything I was doing. The rude noises one of them made at the same time were disgusting.

"The first time that Mama came back from the toilet, she kind of collapsed onto the floor and didn't say anything at all after that.

"The second night two men came back again with water but no food. They said it might be wasted on us. That was scary. One of them was the same man from before, but the second guy was new. The one I knew from before took me to the bathroom again, but Mama wouldn't get up so he just left her alone."

"Angelina, stop there for a minute and answer a couple of questions for me. Can you describe these men?"

"Oh, well, Fred is on the short side..."

"Sorry, I don't need a description of Fred. I know exactly what he looks like. How about the other, uh, three?"

"The two who came to our house with Fred are very different. One is short and muscular with dark hair and eyes, and his voice is deep. His skin is brown, like from spending a lot of time outdoors, or maybe he is part Indian. He talks with an accent that sounds like how they sound on TV if the character is from Brooklyn, you know? The other one was taller, but fatter and he is bald. He had those piggy eyes and a double chin. His skin was pale and he had a lot of freckles on his face. He talked with a sort of whinny voice, and was making these weird mouth sounds all the time."

"Good, how about the third man, the one who came the next day and which of the others was he with?"

"The new man came with the fat bald guy. He was tall too, but not fat. He has light blue eyes and blond hair, pale skin and a mustache I think, either that or he hadn't shaved in days. He was dressed in a suit, it looked expensive like the one the guy with the deep voice wore. The fat guy wore jeans and checkered shirts by the way, not very nice looking either."

"OK, what happened then?"

"The piggy guy came into the room we were being held and tried to make my mother get up to use the bathroom. He left the lantern on the floor so he could use both hands and it lit up most of the room we were in. That's when I saw the piece of metal.

Mama wouldn't stand up on her own so he just let her fall down on the floor and left her there. Then he took me to the bathroom, and held the light so he could stare at me all the time I was there. He said some nasty things when he took me back to the room where we were locked in. After they left I crawled in the direction I seen the metal and felt around until I found it. I didn't know what to do with it at first. It was just this flimsy piece of sheet metal and I could bend it in half with one hand. Then I had the idea to try and roll it up. It hurt a lot at first, but the longer I messed with it the less I felt the pain. It got pretty slippery after a while from the cuts it made in my hands and got even harder to roll with just my hands. I found out if I put it on the floor and held it down with my foot; I could get it to roll up the way I wanted.

" I worked on the metal all that day and all the next. I think it was two days later that they came back, but I lost track of time. I actually hoped they would come back because I couldn't hold it anymore. It was so long before they came I had to use a corner as a bathroom. I think that Mama couldn't hold it either, but she didn't say anything.

"When they did come back and opened the door to our room I could see a little daylight for the first time, so I knew it was at least morning if not later. I was embarrassed because you could smell the pee in the room. I knew that the guy who opened the door could smell it because of the grin on his face. It was the piggy guy and that made me angry. He was the reason we were in that place, and the idea that he could treat us like that made me forget about being embarrassed.

I had the rolled up piece of metal tucked into my pants top under my shirt. I don't know if he saw my bloody hands or what he thought about them if he did. I tried to keep them out of sight.

He seemed to be more impatient than before. I think he was listening for something to happen and was distracted. So when I pulled up my jeans and came out the door he didn't notice I had the metal in my hand until it was too late.

"I was aiming higher, and it went through his neck so easy I thought I had missed at first. I think I will always remember that scream, and the gurgling sound afterward. The gun he was holding went off, but it was pointed the other way. Then he was down on his back and trying to get the metal out of his neck by clawing at it with his hand. The gun and lantern were on the floor and the light from the lantern was shining directly on his face. He looked scared.

"The other guy must have heard the scream because he poked his head out into the hallway. When he saw his buddy on the ground he came all the way out into the hallway and I saw him raise his arm. There was enough light coming from the room behind him and I could see he was holding a gun. I knew I was going to get shot then, but I couldn't move. I froze in place.

The next thing I knew, Chris was standing in front of me and holding my shoulders. I didn't see the other guy, but when we went back to get Mama out of the room, I saw that he was lying on the floor. On the way out of the building Chris checked him and said he was still breathing.

We got Mama out of the building and across the paved area to another building where Chris had hidden his truck. Then we came here."

"Almost done for the time being," I said. "When you were taken from your house, did you hear anything these three men said to each other? Do you think they were equal in importance, or was one of them more like a boss?"

"Oh, now that you say it yes! The smaller, dark-skinned one. Piggy called him boss at least once, and seemed to be afraid of him." Her voice raised and she clenched her fists. "Is that Sylvester? Is that the one who is responsible for all of this?"

"Angelina, I honestly don't know. There aren't any pictures of anyone named Sylvester in the files and only very sketchy descriptions. It could have been him, but I couldn't say for sure."

I had been taking notes and occasionally glancing at the other two while she talked. Mrs. Kelly must have recognized her daughter's voice because she turned her head towards her. I thought that maybe her eyes started to focus, but wasn't sure. Chris had looked at the floor while Angelina spoke. I saw him jerk his shoulders back when she talked about stabbing the guy, but he didn't make any noise.

"Chris," I said, "it's your turn now. Tell me how you found the place and what you did up until the time you called Heather."

"When you left me at Kurt's house," Chris began, "I tried booting up the laptop, but didn't get very far because I didn't have the AC adaptor and thought I'd run out of power before I got anything done. I couldn't read the memory stick without it of course. And, that wouldn't have happened if I hadn't had a lot of luck guessing the password."

"What is the password, Chris? I think I need to know how to get into the machine as well."

Chris glanced sideways at Angelina and said, "It's Angelina, all lower case"

That brought Angelina's head around in surprise. I thought her mother also reacted to hearing the name.

"Interesting," I said, looking at Angelina, "why do you suppose Kurt picked that password? Was there more to your relationship with Kurt than you have told us about?"

"No, not on my part," She said, "but I've always known he wanted more from me than I could give. Maybe if I had acted more firmly about dissuading him from his feelings he would still be alive. Maybe he would have found someone who could give him a relationship, and he wouldn't have tried so hard to find Billy's killer because he knew that was what I wanted."

"Perhaps," I said, "but there is no point in trying to take the blame for any of this Angelina. No one knows what triggered the assault on Kurt, you and your family. It's entirely possible that it would have happened anyway simply because the five of you were in the wrong place at the wrong time on that day after Philippe Gonzalez was murdered."

I heard Chris take a deep breath. "Fred." Was all he said.

"Yeah," I replied, "that's right—Fred. Now get back to your story, Chris."

"I had sorted through most of the papers in the box and set aside a few of them to have a longer look at and maybe show to you when I heard the noise out front, and saw that a uniformed officer was trying to get into Kurt's house. I took the loose papers and the laptop and made it out of the back window just as I heard the front door open. I didn't stop running until I'd gotten back to my truck, and I didn't stop driving until I made up my mind to hide out in a motel room. So, after I took some money out of my bank account, not the savings account in case you are wondering, and I bought an AC adaptor; and then registered at this motel and tried messing around with the computer.

"It took a long time to luck onto the password, open the files on the memory stick, and try to read them. I haven't spent much time at all looking at stuff on the computer itself.

"The memory stick held one word file and a folder with a bunch of scans in jpeg format. I can show them to you anytime you want, but the scans are mostly of individual notebook pages written in a real sloppy hand. I spent nearly twelve hours trying to decipher that handwriting. I almost gave up a couple of times, but I finally came across a page that described a warehouse for hiding stuff, and that made sense of a sketch map I'd seen earlier in another scan. I knew that I had to do something about Angelina and her mother because time was running out before I'd have to show up at Sylvester's and hand over Fred.

"I got to the warehouse about mid-morning and managed to find a hole in the floor where I could squeeze in. Other than scratching my back on the metal it went pretty well. I was about halfway through searching the place when a truck pulled up to the front and two guys came into the building. They had keys to the front door so I knew they were probably the one's who'd taken Angelina. I was trying to think of what to do when Angelina took down the one guy, and Angelina told you what happened after that."

"No short cuts Chris, how did you disable the second person?"

"You took the guns away from me Detective, so I had to improvise. I had a hunting knife and a hatchet that I kept in my truck for camping trips. They were both in my belt, so I guess I just reacted without thinking and threw the hatchet at the guy. He never heard me because he was concentrating on Angelina. It was a lucky throw, and he went down like a sack of rocks."

"Good, I think I've got the basics now, or is there anything you think important that I know?"

Chris and Angelina looked at each other and shook their heads no. Mrs. Kelly had gone back to staring at the ceiling.

Angelina asked, "What about Fred, Detective Sinclair, are you going to arrest him? Maybe he knows where Sylvester and his gang are."

Chris turned to me with a kind of panicked expression on his face.

"Ah, you don't know yet, do you Angelina? I thought that Chris would have told you by now."

"I didn't know how to say it," Chris said to me and then turned to face Angelina, "but Fred is dead. We had a fight and the gun he was holding went off. He was shot through the chest and died almost at once."

"Good!" Was all she had to say.

"I don't particularly like leaving you on your own, but I have to put in an appearance at the station soon. There are already some noises about my being off on unofficial business, and I need to check on where we sit with bringing the death of Fred Figueroa to official notice and a couple of other things. It's not something I can do over the radio or by phone. How would feel about continuing your investigation into Fred's notebooks and Kurt's laptop?"

"I don't see that we have much choice," Chris replied, "there aren't any other people we could take a chance on. I get the impression from what you don't say more than what you do say that we should stay in hiding for a while yet. I'm wondering if maybe we shouldn't be moving out of state for a while, or maybe permanently."

"I'm not going to stop you if you do that, but I would appreciate your being available as witnesses should Sylvester or his friends be arrested. I'm also not going to lie to you, getting arrest warrants for anyone involved in Sylvester's business may not be easy to do, and could raise a lot of attention if I tried. Look, if you do decide to move on, all I ask is that you let me know somehow. Maybe a message to Heather. Nothing specific; just an idea of how to get in touch. I don't want to put her in danger either."

I left them in the motel room. I wondered if they would be there the next time I checked on them. Odds were fifty-fifty. I had deliberately avoided questions about any weapons they might have picked up during the escape from Sylvester's people. I didn't want to know.

I should go to the station right away. I could imagine how my boss was probably wearing a path in his carpet waiting to ream me out. Call it having a callous disregard for authority, but I thought I should stop by the Figueroa murder scene first to see how things were progressing,

I was in for a disappointment. The site was deserted, not even a scrap of crime scene tape to be seen. I looked at the places where fingerprints might have been lifted, and found not a trace of powder. At least the body was gone. It might even be in the morgue, but I decided that I wouldn't take a bet on it. Like anything else tainted with Sylvester's scent this place was not going to make the evening news.

I wondered if I should take another look in the trailer, but decided that it would be a waste of time. One thing about Sylvester's hired hands—they were good at covering things up. In fact, I was quite disappointed. I knew the ME and the lead of the forensic team, too. That either one of them would be on the take came as a sad surprise. I was beginning to feel pretty damn lonely.

The drive to the station took about twenty minutes, and I used every one of them to go over my story time and time again. Of course, that story would have to be molded in accordance with the questions I'd be asked. Taking one more step in that direction of thought, I also could predict that the questions I'd be asked would be directly related to how close they thought I was getting to pay dirt. At the most innocuous end they would ask where I'd been, who I suspected of doing what, and how close was I to an arrest. At the most dangerous, there would be threats, not questions; and I would have to start watching my back more closely than ever.

"Detective Sinclair," Captain Murphy began, "nice to see you again after all this time. Did you get my message about the meeting you were supposed to make at nine this morning? No? What a surprise! I'll have to reprimand the radio operator for failure to follow orders. Now, why don't you come into my office where we can talk about a few things?"

I supposed that would be the right thing to do, and said, "Yes Sir."

The questions started even before I'd seated myself in the rock hard, straight-backed chair Captain Murphy used as a tool of discipline.

"Let us start, Detective, on where you have been for the past two days. I have not had a single update from you on status of your work load, which if I recall correctly, included a high-priority task from the Office of the Mayor."

Oh-oh, right to the big ticket item.

"Yes Sir, as you are aware, that particular task is need-to-know and not to be announced over the radio or unsecured phone lines. I have been in a position where that security could have been compromised at any moment by injudicious communication."

"I can assure you, Sinclair, that my office has no bugs hidden in the woodwork. You may speak freely now."

Maybe, but I doubted the wisdom of doing so. Instead, some stuff he probably already knew would cure his appetite for the moment.

"Yes Sir, I'm pleased to report that I have identified one of the people who work for Sylvester Martin."

"Excellent, Sinclair, and what does this person have to say for himself."

"Unfortunately, Sir, nothing at all. He is, regrettably, dead. Appears to have been shot at close range, although I have not yet had a chance to look at the forensic and ME reports. I made a close examination of the property where his body was found and intended to go look at his residence this afternoon as soon as a warrant could be arranged. I hope that we might be able to wind up this discussion soon, so that I can get back to work."

"Not so fast Sinclair. Let's have a little more detail. What's the name and how do you know he was associated with this mysterious crime boss?"

"His name was Frederick, or Freddy Figueroa and he had a file as thick as your thumb concerning his questionable activities, although he apparently has never been charged with anything. As you know, that is typical for Martin's people, but I have confirmation of his relationship with Martin from a trusted informant."
"Who is?"

"Sir, surely you would not ask me to reveal the identity of a CI who would certainly be killed if his activities became known?"

"Sinclair, are you saying that I am not to be trusted?"

"No Sir! Never would I say such a thing! I have the same trust in you as I had for my dear father, rest his soul. I will gladly tell you his name, but could I lean over and say it directly into your ear?"

"Very well, but I think you are being overly cautious."

"The name of my informant," I whispered, "is Xavier Cipriano. He is supposed to be high on Martin's list of trusted lieutenants." I stood away from his desk and continued speaking in a normal voice. "I am worried though, Sir. He was supposed to be in contact with me the day before yesterday, and I haven't heard anything from him. Do you suppose that something has gone wrong?"

Captain Murphy was not quite successful in masking his shock.

"Very good, uh Detective, I hope that things have not gone awry for your CI. Please keep me posted. Now if you will excuse me, I've just remembered an important call to the Mayor's Office I promised to make this afternoon."

"Yes Sir!" As I backed out of the door. "I will Sir! Count on me! Please give my regards to the Mayor, Sir!"

I was making for my desk when Lieutenant Siegel called my name. Great, not exactly who I wanted to deal with at the moment.

"Hello Lieutenant, how's it going?"

"Outstanding! Listen, I just wanted to apologize again for that snafu with the SWAT team. Hope that it didn't ruin something important."

"Oh, no don't give it another thought. Turned out to be a false alarm anyway. Some teenagers writing graffiti on an abandoned wall. Some guy who called in said they had high powered rifles! Imagine that!"

"Oh yeah? Good thing we didn't waste the money then. By the way, Captain Murphy was looking for you. You might want to see him soon, because he seemed a little put out." The smirk on his face was threatening to leave permanent creases.

"Oh, I just came from there. Thanks for letting me know though. You know, I'm a little concerned about the Captain."

The smirk got deeper, if that was possible. "Really? What has you worried Detective, something gone wrong?"

"No, not with me. With the Captain. You know, I probably shouldn't say anything but he did seem really preoccupied, and after what I overheard the other day...well. I don't like floating rumors Lieutenant, bad for morale. I'm sure it is nothing."

"No, wait Detective, Guy that is, now you've got me concerned as well. Is there something I should know?"

"Look, I'm positive it's nothing, but when I was having a sit-down in the head the other day I heard McGuire and Harmon talking about the Captain. I know, I know, I should have let them know I was there, but it would have been kind of embarrassing so I kept my mouth shut. What they said didn't make a whole lot of sense, but I probably just heard part of it. Something about the family breaking down, someone not feeling too good, maybe even a death in the family? Do you know if the Captain has a relative named Philip or Phillips? Look, it's really none of our business. Family stuff always crops up when you don't want it to. After that little dust up with the Feds last year the Captain sure doesn't need any more on his plate. You know?"

"Wait, Feds? What about the Feds?"

"Oh, you didn't know! Damn, me and my big mouth! Just goes to show I shouldn't be talking out of school. Got to go now Lieutenant, you take care now, you hear? Greasy side down and all that."

I continued on my way to my desk, and reminding myself how smirking made a mess of your face, tried very hard not to.

I found the report from the ME on top of the one from the forensic team on my desk. They were works of art. According to the ME Frederick Figueroa died from a bullet would through the heart. The bullet was not recovered and was assumed to have passed through the body and into heavy vegetative growth. The weapon was undoubtedly a thirty-ought six shot from some distance as there were no powder burns or gunshot residue on the body. Most likely an accidental shooting it said, perhaps from a nearby hill where a water tower stood. And that, it said, was that. Body to be released to next of kin, or contract mortuary if none are found.

The forensic report was even briefer. Accidental shooting, no cause for investigation in depth except to note in files should a similar occurrence happen in the same area. No fingerprints lifted. Advised Records of death and requested notification of next of kin, and employer. Neither of which were known to the investigators. Public relations would take care of it.

So ends the existence of a sad young man.

I put the files in a drawer. There might come a day when modifications would be required.

ANGELINA AND CHRIS

I looked at Angelina and her mother sitting next to each other on the bed. Mrs. Clark had finally come around enough to remember some of what had happened. To her the days of imprisonment had ended just moments ago and the fear in her eyes was palpable. Angelina was cooing and massaging her shoulders and trying to explain in small snatches what had happened and where we were. Something must have sunk in because her shoulders finally slumped down and she bent over crying. After a while, that stopped and she looked around the room, apparently seeing me for the first time.

"Chris! Did you save us from those men? I don't remember any of what happened. What are we doing here in this room? I want to go home, please?"

We took our time explaining again, what had happened over the past few days. I wasn't sure that Mrs. Kelly believed me when I told her that Angelina had fought the captors and had won. We didn't explain the details, just that the men couldn't stop us from leaving. We told her about Sinclair and what was going on with the gang, and how going home was not going to be possible. Not now, maybe not for a long time. I watched her as she absorbed all that information, going from fear to shock to anger to uncertainty. She was no longer a young woman, not old either, but not strong. Too much had happened. Finally, she stood up and looked at herself in the mirror and gave out a groan.

"Oh my, look at me. I am a dirty mess, my hair, my face, my clothes, and I stink! Oh, how can you stand to be near me? I'm going to take a shower, and wash these clothes. Is there a robe or something else I can put on?"

"I'll go across the street Mama," Angelina said, "there is a strip mall with a used clothing store. I'll pick up something for both of us. I'm no picture of clean living either. You think your hair looks bad! Just look at this mess!"

The bathroom door closed after her and we heard water start to run.

"Angelina, are you certain you want to go outside? Maybe if you told me I could go get what you need."

"Chris, my dear friend Chris, after all the years I have known you, it has been clear from the start that you have absolutely no fashion sense. If you picked out the clothes we would both wind up looking like GI Janes and probably poke out in funny places because they were too small to boot. What you can do is loan me some money, I left the house without my purse."

She smiled, and some little hidden place deep inside melted.

"OK," I said, "but hurry back. We have a lot to talk about. And watch out for people who might be too interested in you. I'm sure we are far away from them now, but it doesn't hurt to be careful."

A half hour later two plastic bags laid on the floor, their contents of bras, undies, jeans and blouses lay scattered amongst soaps, creams, brushes and socks on the bed. Angelina sorted through and picked out her mother's share. The water was still running in the bathroom so she left the smaller pile on a chair next to the bathroom door.

"Shall we wait until Mama comes out to talk about what to do next?"

"We can do that, but I think some things need to be decided by just us two. I think we should split up, and you and your mother should catch a bus out of state. Don't you have family in Illinois? A cousin, if I remember right."

"I'm impressed Chris, how in the world did you remember that? I didn't think I ever mentioned it to anyone except Billy."

"Oh, well, sometimes things just come back from the past. You must have said something when we were kids."

"Chris, how much I want to go back to that time. Just the four of us. Happy and no cares in the world. I miss Billy so much, every minute of the day. And Kurt, poor Kurt, he loved me Chris and I let him down. If it weren't for me he'd still be alive."

"Angelina, I don't think that you have that right. If it wasn't for you, and what Kurt felt about you he would not have survived for as long as he did. Iraq would have finally killed him, Angelina. You were the only reason he had to keep on trying. If you want to blame someone, blame Sylvester and his gang. They are the ones who should pay for Kurt, and Billy, and you, and your mother."

She didn't say anything after that for a while. Then the water stopped running, and she took her mother's things to the bathroom. When she came back, I saw a look in her eyes that I didn't like. I liked her next words even less.

"I'm not leaving Chris. I think you are right about sending Mama away, and Illinois is probably the best place for her to go. You should go with her Chris, this isn't your fight, but I have to stay and try to make things right about Billy and Kurt. I can't live with them dying and not being revenged."

"Angelina, I'm not going anywhere. They were my friends, and so are you. It's about time that I stood up for them and for you. But Angelina, revenge is not how we need to go. Revenge means unthinking anger and taking chances. These people are too strong and there are too many of them. We need to be smart, and stealthy, and use their weaknesses against them. We will take our time and bring them down a bit at a time."

"What weaknesses Chris? You just said they were strong."

"Angelina, I don't know right off the bat, but we'll find something that will work, and don't forget Sinclair. He is on our side, I'm sure of it now. Maybe he won't want the help of a couple of untrained civilians, but then again maybe he won't have much choice. It sounds as though his department is riddled with turncoats."

It took the rest of the evening and well into the night to convince Mrs. Kelly that she needed to leave. The hardest part was telling her that Angelina wouldn't be going with her. It came down to Angelina telling her that if she stayed, she would put us all in danger and that it would only be possible to stay alive if she went to ground and left us free to move as needed. I could tell that she hated the idea, but ever so gradually was worn down by Angelina's arguments and begging. Somewhere around two in the morning she said that she would go, but if we didn't come and join her in a few weeks, we could expect her to return looking for us.

Angelina went with her the next morning and put her on the west-bound bus. When she came back to the motel room, we set out to do what Sinclair had asked and dig through Kurt's laptop and Fred's scan files. It would go faster if we had a second machine, but cash was becoming a problem, and we didn't want to take a chance on attracting attention by withdrawing more.

The breakthrough, when it came, was unexpected.

He'd put them in a folder in his "My Pictures" subdirectory. The title was fairly straightforward, but I doubted that anyone not knowing his personal history would have known the significance. "People I would like to send to Iraq". There must be hundreds of them, all relegated to subfolders in some cryptic fashion. Except for Fred. His were all together and each one was tagged with date and place. The pictures included Fred coming out of his apartment in Silver Spring, Fred hanging out at his trailer in Wheaton, Fred at a large building that we recognized as being the warehouse, and pictures of Fred with different people. All of them were taken from a distance, but the detail was so good that we thought they must have been taken with a high quality telephoto lens. I had no idea that Kurt had been into photography, and it came as a surprise to Angelina also.

The other folders might be more interesting, but mostly we had no idea of who the people were in the photographs they contained. The folder names were intriguing though: Cop #1, Cop #2, Boss?, Fat Guy, Skinny Guy, Cop?, Mayor's Office Guy, Guy With Gun Showing, Xavier, and a few others that were less instructive. We counted sixteen subfolders with people other than Fred. We opened them one after the other and glanced at the photos. Angelina was first to recognize someone.

"That one! Kurt calls him 'Fat Guy', but that's the piggy man who I killed. Don't you recognize him?

"I'm not sure, Angelina. I only had a glimpse in the lantern light, and he was lying with his face on the concrete. Could be though. Sorry, I mean if you recognize him; that's all that counts."

Cop #1 turned out to be someone I had no difficulty recognizing.

"That's Sinclair's partner Harmon. He's a detective also. I saw him take a package from someone in a blue Mercedes. That happened just outside the door to the station house. Can you imagine them being so sure of themselves that they can make payoffs right out in the open?"

"That's really scary Chris. How are we going to bring these people down if they run the police department?"

"I know. That worries me a lot, too. Our only hope is that Sinclair is who he says he is and that there are people who have his back. Let's look at that folder with the 'Mayor's Office Guy' title. Sinclair said that he had a connection in the Mayor's Office. I think maybe with the Mayor himself."

The folder only had one jpeg file, and it showed a younger man. One who was dressed in an expensive looking suit, leaning against a blue automobile that might be a Mercedes. You could only see his face in profile because he was apparently listening to someone in the car. Definitely not the Mayor, I had voted for the man and had seen his photo more than once.

We looked in the folder titled 'Boss?' next. There were three candid shots, but none of them were full on or even in profile. The man in each instance was moving, once getting into a blue vehicle, once walking away from the camera toward a building that was fuzzed and out of focus, and once behind a screen of bushes where you could only see part of his face. Angelina thought that he could have been one of the men who came to take her that day, but could not be certain.

That Kurt had made so many photographs over so long a time—six months according to the dates on the photos—made it impossible to understand how we had not known about his activities. Especially that Angelina, who had spent so much time with him over that period of time, had been kept in the dark about it showed that our friend had an agenda all his own. That made me realize I had not known him very well at all. I suddenly felt ashamed that I did not even know the details of his death. I had never asked what had happened.

"Angelina, how did Kurt die? When Sinclair told me about his death he didn't give any details."

"I don't know that much either, Chris. We spent time the night before talking about what should be done about Fred, and even made plans to meet so we could go see him at his apartment, but that's the last time I saw him. We were taken the very next morning. The taller one said something to me that made me think Kurt was dead. He said 'Shut up and follow orders or you might wind up like your boyfriend.' At first I thought he was talking about Billy, but that didn't make any sense. Why threaten me with what I thought was an accident that happened years before."

She paused a moment and chewed on her lip before speaking again.

"Now, now I wonder. What if he was involved with what happened to Billy also?"

"Up until recently I thought that Xavier might have been the only person directly involved in what happened to Billy," I said. "I had a thought yesterday, and it's one you aren't going to be happy about. How did Xavier know where to find Billy? Not just what town he lived in at the time, but down to the details of where he would be that morning he died. Why was Billy walking to campus that morning when his first class of the day wasn't until one in the afternoon? Fred told me that he thought Xavier had answered the phone while he was in the bathroom and somehow tricked Billy into revealing what he knew about Xavier's involvement in the old gangland murder. I think Fred was lying. I think that he was with Xavier when he drove the car that killed Billy. I think he told Billy to meet him somewhere on campus and that he set Billy up."

Angelina's face had drained of color as I spoke, and her hands began to tremble. I thought she might pass out, but then she turned toward the window and took a deep breath.

"Fred, that bastard Fred. It was him all this time. When I still thought he was trying to be a friend. When he came to the house after I came home and offered help and seemed so sympathetic, when he gave me a hug and told me how much he had admired Billy—all that time—he..."

She turned to face me once again, and reached out to take my face in her hands.

"Thank you Chris! Thank you for killing that bastard. Thank you for paying him back for Billy, and for Kurt. Isn't that right Chris? Didn't he have something to do with Kurt's death, too?"

"I think that must be right, Angelina. Alone or with Xavier, he had to have done it. Did you know that Xavier was dead also?"

"No, Kurt and I had decided that Xavier must have been the one who killed Billy, but that was all we knew about him. Or, at least all I knew about him. Obviously, from the title on that folder Kurt knew more about him than I."

That drew our attention back to the computer, and I opened the 'Xavier' folder. There were dozens of jpegs with tags showing dates from more than three months previously. The first one we looked at showed Xavier full on standing in front of a building, he was a lot older looking than in high school, and flabby. I remembered him as a tough looking, wiry fellow with short hair and lots of scars and tattoos. I'm not sure I would have recognized the person in the photo if I passed him on the street. He looked much older than the twenty-four years he must have been. His face had a hard and dangerous look. I didn't recognize the building, but could only see a small part of a wall.

The second one we opened had Xavier sitting at a table in a restaurant. There was a plate in front of him with a huge steak on it, and a glass of wine was in his hand. A woman sat across the table, but we couldn't make out details about her appearance.

The third showed Xavier talking to another man, whose back was to the camera. Something familiar about him, but I wasn't sure what.

The fourth was a long distance shot. The small figure on the right was probably Xavier. The height and build were right. The man on the left was shorter, and darker. Angelina was sitting close beside me on the edge of the bed and I felt her stiffen.

"That man on the left. I think that's one of the men who kidnapped us. The one who acted like the boss. Maybe that's Sylvester, Chris!"

The fifth was a close up of the previous shot focusing on the dark man.

"Yes, that's him! We know what Sylvester looks like Chris!"

I wasn't totally convinced about him being Sylvester. I was ready to believe that he had participated in the kidnapping, but would the boss do that? Would a boss expose himself like that? I had my doubts.

I opened the sixth file. Xavier was standing at the corner of a building and he was talking to the younger man who Kurt had identified as the one from the Mayor's Office. He had a serious expression on his face and his hand was raised in a threatening fashion with two fingers pointed like a gun at the other man's head.

The seventh through fifteenth photos were a series of rapid shots that followed the progress of a blue car, the Mercedes I thought, as it passed in front of a building that I recognized as the police station. We couldn't make out any of the occupants, but the license plate was clearly visible and might have been the reason the photos were taken.

Sixteen showed the car stopped in front of the station and a man was getting out. The photo caught him half crouched saying something to whomever was inside the car. The man was Harmon.

Seventeen showed Xavier and Fred standing side by side and laughing. They each had a beer bottle in hand. They were in front of the warehouse, at the bottom of the two steps that led up to the office door. Someone was standing inside the door, looking out at them, but I couldn't make out the features.

Eighteen through twenty-six was another series of photos showing Xavier standing between two other men. One was Harmon and one was the short, dark man Angelina thought was Sylvester. I didn't understand why there were so many of the same shot until I noticed how Harmon seemed to be the focus of their attention as he gestured first at Xavier and then at the other man. The expression on Harmon's face was one of anger. The later photos of the series showed that Xavier was moving slightly back and away from the other two with each shot. You could almost hear the accusations being thrown. In the last of them, the short dark man was looking at Xavier, but his expression was neutral, maybe thoughtful. I thought that I would not like to be looked at in that way.

There was one last jpeg in the folder. The tag had a date from a week ago, and showed Xavier standing face to face with Fred. I wondered why it wasn't in the 'Fred' folder. Fred had his hands out to his sides and I could imagine him saying "Yeah? So?" like he did when he didn't have an answer for doing something stupid. We'd seen that same pose a hundred times in those last two years of high school. Fred was always doing something stupid back then. Apparently he hadn't changed with time.

We both knew by then that we had found the bombshell kind of stuff Sinclair could use to prove relationships.

"I wonder why," I began, "Kurt didn't turn this over to the police. Surely he knew what kind of evidence he had recorded. Why take more chances by meeting with Fred or Xavier. He had to know by then how dangerous they were."

"Chris, maybe he didn't have a contact in the police department that he trusted. I think you were lucky that Detective Sinclair was the first one to talk to you. Can you imagine what might have happened if it had been the other one, that Harmon person?"

"Given what happened to my window the next morning, I don't think there was much difference. Obviously just being Sinclair's partner didn't put a brake on Harmon's activities. I'm sure he filled in the guy in the Mercedes about everything that was said in that interview."

"You still don't believe that the short man in the photos is Sylvester, do you Chris?"

"I'm not totally convinced to be honest with you. I don't understand why Sylvester would be involved in day to day activities, or actually be doing the dirty work. Why would he take chances like that?"

"Well, I haven't changed my mind. It's him. He's the one that gives me nightmares, and he's the one I want to kill."

"Angelina, I get how you feel, but we have to go to Sinclair with this. This isn't a job for amateurs. Hell, we don't even know where to look for the guy!"

She was quiet for a long time. I thought it best not to say anything more. I was certain that she would come around and recognize the sensible course of action.

"Look," I had to get the discussion started again, "let's leave a message for Sinclair with Heather. When he calls back we can make plans to meet and turn all of this over to him. Then it'll be out of our hands and where it should be—part of a criminal investigation."

She looked at me, shrugged her shoulders and said, "Maybe you're right Chris. Go ahead and give Heather a call."

Heather said she would pass on our message as soon as she could and to stay put until Sinclair got in touch. We settled in to wait, but I could tell that Angelina was fidgety. If she wasn't pacing around the room she was sitting in a chair with her head between her hands. I asked her if I could do anything, and she said she had a terrible headache and would lie down. She asked if I happened to have any pain relievers in my truck, but I didn't and said so.

"There's a drug store in the strip mall. I can go and get some for you. It'll only take a few minutes."

"Oh, Chris," she said, "are you sure you don't mind? I like the little blue ones that are shaped like triangles."

"What's the brand?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the pharmacy people can tell you. Or, I could go. I know what the bottle looks like."

"No, Angelina, I'll get it figured out. You just rest there. I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll leave the cell in case Sinclair calls."

"Thank you Chris," she said, "for everything." And, she closed her eyes.

It took a while. The pharmacy guy didn't know what pills I was looking for, but gave me a couple of options. I bought a bottle of each kind, and walked back across the road. The first thing I noticed was that my pickup was gone. The motel room door was unlocked, and the room was empty. The gun I'd taken from the dead guy at the warehouse wasn't where I'd left it. The laptop was open, but just went to sleep mode as I looked at it. It took a few seconds to bring back. A new word document was on the desktop.

" _Chris, I know you would not leave me to save yourself, but this is really not your fight. We are friends Chris, but I have lost my love._

Please keep safe, and if you can, watch over Mama.

Sometimes, I wish it was you that I loved. We would be safe in a very dull suburban house by now.

Angelina"

I discovered that I had very similar feelings all of a sudden.

Not knowing what to do without wheels, I called Heather's number. She answered on the second ring.

"Chris, what's up? Are you and the women OK? "  
"I'm fine, Heather. Mrs. Kelly is on her way out of the state and should be safe, but I've got a big problem. Angelina has my truck, a gun, and a lot of hate for that Sylvester Martin guy. I think she's heading out to the only place she knows where to find him. At that warehouse where she and her mother were held captive. I think she's going to try and kill him, Heather. That can't turn out well no matter what happens. Can you tell Detective Sinclair, please? I'm going to try and find some way to go out there, but it might take me a while to find another ride."

"Stay put. I'll come to you, and you can use my car. Just drop me off at work. If I can't raise him on his cell phone, I'll try the radio."

ANGELINA

I've tried to see it Chris' way. I really have. But he does not know how I hurt. Billy, my baby, Kurt, and what they did to Mama and to me. How can I just let it be? I can't--not if I want to have any peace for the rest of my life. If I cannot have peace I don't know that I want to go on living. I have Chris' cell phone and one of the guns he took from the men at the warehouse. And I have a plan. Maybe it won't work. Maybe they will shoot me dead before I have a chance to do anything. Maybe they won't.

I found my way back to the warehouse without any problem. I had watched the road signs while Chris drove. 495 to the off-ramp for Bay View Parkway, right off the ramp, about one mile, and there it was. There were no vehicles around and I think I have the place to myself. The door is wide open—no wait, it's broken open and sagging against the door frame. I wonder how that happened. Good. I won't have to look for another way in.

Chris didn't know that I took the piggy man's cell phone before we left. He was too busy with Mama to notice me put it into my pocket. I looked at the contacts list and found a number for SM, Sylvester Martin. As soon as I am ready I will give him a call.

I didn't realize the building was so large. I only saw the front room, the bathroom, and the room where we were held. This will complicate my plans. I have to be somewhere I can see them but not the other way around. And, it's dark. The light from the open door only gets inside so far. I'm beginning to think I have made a big mistake. This is just not going to work the way I thought it would. Then I hear the noise from outside the building. It sounds like cars or trucks and it's getting louder. Got to get out of here now!

Too late! There are two cars already on the pavement in front of the building and coming this way. Where to hide?

SINCLAIR

Waiting in the office made me nervous. I felt eyes on my back and that crawly feeling you get when you think someone's paying too much attention. Nothing so obvious you could see of course. They aren't amateurs after all, they've had the best training tax money can buy. Still and all I'd feel a lot more comfortable cruising in my vehicle, cell phones worked wonderfully no matter how fast you are going.

I got into the car, turned the key, put it in reverse and looked in the mirror. Someone was standing directly in back of the car, so back into neutral to wait for the body to clear away. It didn't. Instead, another body came up to the passenger side of the car and knocked on the window. Harmon. Damn.

I lowered the passenger side window and said, "Hey, Harmon, What's up?"

He didn't answer, but instead reached inside and released the door lock. As he sat in the passenger seat he gave me a smile and said, "Hiya Partner, long time, no see. I've been waiting to catch up with you. I was starting to think you might be avoiding me."

"Why would I do that, Detective Harmon? A few things have come up that needed my attention and I knew you were busy on that other case."

"What sort of things are those, partner?"

"That homicide out Wheaton way for one thing. Ever since we took on the cooperative agreement for policing out there it's added to the work load. But you know that. As a matter of fact, I was just on my way to do an interview on that matter. It's an easy one, Harmon. I can handle it alone."

"I'm sure you can, partner. By the way, what did you say to the Captain? He took off out the back door like a shot, with Siegel right behind him. Man if looks could kill Capt'n be dead for sure!

"Just think if they could partner, we'd just take out that whole line item from the budget. No more ammo to buy! The Taxpayers would certainly appreciate that.

"While I'm thinking on it, why don't you hand over your revolver partner?

"What, do you think I'm joking? Look at where we are in the middle of a public place and all. Just think what might happen if some of that ammo goes off and kills a citizen. I know you partner. You would do damn near anything to keep that from happening. Just think on it. It could be that little old lady over there next to the mail box. The one standing just in front of Sergeant McGuire.

"That's right, nice and slow, handle first, safety on, just put it on the seat right there beside me. Now, that other little piece. The one in your ankle holster. Didn't think I knew about that one did you? Of course I do, I'm your partner aren't I?

"Good, now give a wave to Sergeant McGuire so he can help the little old lady cross the street. I don't think she sees too well and needs to hang on to his arm."

"You don't seriously think that you can get away with this, do you Harmon?"

"Get away with what partner? We are going out on patrol, and in a few minutes we'll get a call to respond to a place out in the country. I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't 10-31 B&E, so we'll have to be careful. Just like old times. Right partner?"

"Where are we going?"

"Back out nice and slow, and head on over to Columbia Pike and catch 495 Eastbound. I'll let you know when to get off."

We hadn't gone more than a few blocks when my cell phone chimed.

"Oops! Hand it over partner. Let's see who wants to talk." H looked at the name showing on the caller ID. "Who is Heather?"

"She's the woman who cleans my apartment on Tuesdays," I lied, "probably wants to cancel again."

"You can afford a cleaning lady? How about that! What do you pay for that?"

"$89 for a four hour clean."

"That's all you get from Heather? She good looking?"

"She's sixty years old and blind in one eye."

"Yeah, I'll bet! I think Heather will have to leave you a message."

Thirty minutes later and I knew exactly where we were going. The warehouse. The next exit would be the road to take. Almost on top of it, but I saw Harmon was watching me out of the corner of his eye so I kept my foot on the throttle.

"Oops! Must have been sleeping, Partner! We missed our exit. Why don't you take the next one instead, and turn right at the bottom of the ramp."

My mind wasn't working fast enough. All too soon I'd be at our destination and I was willing to bet that Harmon would have help waiting there. If I was going to do anything it would have to be before then. The narrow bridge sign came up after a half mile on the narrow country road. It was a one lane affair with a notice that one should wait for oncoming traffic to clear the bridge before proceeding. An older car was approaching from the other direction.

"You've got time," Harmon said, "just give it a little gas and get through before we have to wait on that guy."

I did.

"Maybe not so much Sinclair! We don't want to look like we're racing him. Damn it, slow down!"

I jerked the wheel to the left at the last second and the left-hand pylon took out most of the passenger side all the way back to the rear seat, Harmon with it. The air bag kept me more or less in place all the way down to the creek bed fifteen feet below. I think I lost consciousness for a few seconds on impact, but everything came swimming back into focus soon enough. There was a rush of cold water around my feet, and I couldn't see the front end of the car through the muddy water surrounding it. The air bag finally collapsed in a heap around the steering wheel and I landed on top of it with enough force to knock the wind out of me. I discovered that my head had hit the windshield and left a smear of blood. I picked the rear view mirror up off the floor by the throttle and had a look. Not too bad, stitches for sure, but that wasn't my biggest problem. Getting out of here was.

I spotted my cell phone and ankle piece wedged into the angle between what had been the bottom of the windshield and the top of the dashboard. I retrieved them and then felt around under the front seat for my emergency medical gear. Not there. Oh, there it was down by the parking brake. Open and spilling everything out into the rapidly rising water in the cab. Radio. Not a good idea. Radio silence was a better idea. I struggled with the door handle, it wouldn't budge. Miracle of miracles, the window slid down without complaint. By the time I had managed to worm my way out and onto the bank of the creek, the oncoming car had pulled up to the broken bridge abutment and the driver was staring down at me.

"You hurt, Fella?"

I gave him a thumbs up.

"Just bruised a bit, I'll be fine."

"More'n you can say for the other fella. Doesn't look too good."

I crawled up the slope to the bridge abutment and looked at the scrambled mass of metal, concrete and Harmon that was draped over rebar sticking out of the bridge roadway.

"No Sir," I said as I showed him my ID, "it does not. Could you give me a lift back to somewhere I can call this in?"

"Closest place is my house," he said, pointing down the road in the direction from which he came, "there's nothing up on the 495 for at least ten miles or so."

"That would be fine, Sir. I would appreciate it. Maybe you have a band-aid or two there?"

"Head bump like that, I'd think you'd better see a doc pretty soon."

"Oh, I will, but my partner here and I were on a call to an abandoned warehouse in that direction, and I think it's a serious matter. After we make the call, do you think you might drive me to that place?"

"Huh? Well, I suppose I can. Must really be serious if you are willing to go in injured."

"Could mean saving someone's life," I said, "it would take too long to get another unit out this way."

"In that case, sure I will. Come on, let's get to it. My name is Simon Fielding, by the way. Martha can help you put a dressing on that wound when we get to the house; she's had a lot of experience what with all the two-legged kids, four-legged kids, calves, and puppies over the years."

When we got to his farmhouse, I used his land line to call Heather. I wasn't sure I wanted to use my cell phone. It was department issue and might be compromised. What she had to say made me impatient to get going. I asked her to monitor the radio and let me know if a call went out for a car to head out to the warehouse. Siegel and Captain Murphy might have other things on their minds, but Sergeant McGuire would be listening for an update from Harmon sooner rather than later. I hesitated a moment before making a second request."

"Heather, there is an Officer Fitzgerald at the station. I think he has duty today. Could you try to get a message to him? Keep it low key, maybe just say you're reminding him that the place out in the country where he took the scraping for the lab might have more evidence turn up soon."

A half hour later and I had been patched up by Martha, Simon's wife, and he and I were stopped on the road in view of the abandoned industrial site.

"Simon," I said, "Please drop me off at the next turn-off. Then you'd best be getting back to your house. It's possible that there might be trouble brewing, and I don't want you getting hurt."

"OK, good enough, but what about you? You going in there without any backup? What did they say when you called in?"

"Oh, don't worry about me. Someone well be along in a matter of minutes, and I'll hook up with them. One more thing, Simon. If you don't see anyone come out to clean up that accident soon, will you call the Silver Spring station house and ask for Captain Spear? Tell him that Detective Sinclair and Detective Harmon were in an accident and that the Martin affair might be coming to a conclusion. He may ask you a couple of questions, so please be thorough in your answers. Thanks, Simon, you've been a life saver."

I watched him drive out of sight before I walked down the cracked pavement towards the warehouse. It was likely that if I had come onto the property the same way as last time I wouldn't have noticed them until too late. There were two of them, crouched low behind a broken wall and looking in the direction vehicles would approach from the southern side. I froze and looked for a place to hide. A second building, the one we had watched from, stood some distance off to the left. It was nearly a hundred feet away, but there wasn't anything closer. I backed up until the two men were hidden from view by a tall growth of weeds. A gully had been washed down through the bank of the roadway to my left and afforded a way to approach the second building and stay out of view at the same time. That worked for nearly half the distance, but the depth of the washout decreased gradually and I had to finally get down on my belly and crawl the last twenty feet of so.

I thought I'd reached safe harbor, but when I looked into the rear doorway of the building I saw two vehicles parked inside. The blue Mercedes I'd come to know and a silver SUV. Both of them had heavily tinted windows making it impossible to tell if anyone was sitting inside. Both were parked with front ends pointing away from me in position to drive out the open bay doors. They were sitting directly on top of the spot where Fitzgerald and I had kept watch when last I visited the place. Obviously, they expected someone to come and didn't want to announce their presence too soon. I suspected that someone, was me. Apparently the original plan hadn't included Harmon riding shotgun. Interesting, communication was not a strong point for them, it seemed. Otherwise McGuire would have certainly brought them up to date. Or, maybe I had it wrong about Harmon, and he was not part of Martin' operation. I began to feel bad about the bridge abutment. Things were getting confused once again.

I made my way by scuttling sideways to one of the large steel supports holding up the roof. From there, scattered debris offered cover as I kept my belly flat to the ground and elbowed my way forward. The frame of the SUV was high enough off the floor that I could scoot forward to a point I thought must be under the front seats. I lay there and waited for several minutes, but heard nothing, not even breathing noises. The view out the front through the bay door revealed the front of the warehouse building across the pavement. A pickup was parked there. I thought it was the one I'd noticed near Kurt Dawson's house that belonged to Christopher Clark. Not good news.

I slid sideways to get a view from under the chassis up into the window of the Mercedes. The tinting was still a problem, but at least I could see enough of the interior that I could tell no one was sitting upright in the front passenger seat. I found a small screw lying on the floor and flipped it up at the Mercedes' window. It wasn't a loud noise, but almost immediately a face appeared at the window, looking outward and down to the front. I ducked back under the center of the SUV. Shit! Now what?

The door of the Mercedes opened and a pair of black shoes hit the floor. Almost immediately a cell phone rang.

"Yeah?" and the voice was silent for a few seconds. "No I didn't see anything, but I thought I heard something." Silence again. "No, nothing. It could have been a bug hitting the window for all I know. Don't get your skivvies up in a wad. It's nothing, Felix or Max would have said something if anyone had come in on the road. I'm going out back to take a piss. Be back in the car in a couple of minutes."

Footstep noises faded with distance as the man walked out the back door of the building. I took a chance that he was the only one in the vehicles and scooted backwards and out from under the SUV. There was a heavy smell of exhaust in the air I hadn't noticed before, and I thought that they must have left the engines idling for a while after they'd parked. That gave me an idea. Probably wouldn't work, but it would at least give them something to think about. I took off my shirt and pulled the cotton t-shirt over my head. It was brand new and wouldn't tear easily, so I tried cutting strips with my pocket knife. I had two of them cut and then heard the guy coming back in from the bushes. I squatted next to the rear tire of the SUV and hoped he wasn't curious enough to look around. I had the pistol out and ready if that happened, but didn't want to have to deal with a hostage and a shot would be heard for sure. The Mercedes' door opened and a few seconds later slammed shut. I let out a silent sigh of relief.

Five minutes later, I had six strips of cloth draped over my leg and tied the remainder of the t-shirt cloth into a small sack, with three rounds of my .38 ammo securely held inside. I scrambled back under the SUV and traced the fuel line from the tank to a low point about half-way along the frame. It was tough stuff, but I finally managed a small puncture with the awl blade of my knife. The fine spray of fuel dripped down my arm to the floor and started making a puddle. I let the sack of cloth soak it up for a while and then worked my way back to the tank where I wedged it between the tank and floor under the back seat. That left a five foot long strip of cloth hanging down to the floor.

This was the part I wasn't very sure about. If I soaked the cloth with too much gas it would burn like a fuse and I might not have time to get clear before things happened. Alternatively, if I didn't soak it I was far from certain it would burn at all. My compromise was to fold it around my hand and dip only the bends of the rolls into the gas puddle, leaving a few inches of dry cloth between each damp spot. I had to let it be. Time was passing and sooner or later they would get tired of waiting. I tied one end around the gasoline soaked sack and strung the remainder of the strip out as long as it would stretch toward the rear of the vehicle. One more look around to see if I had missed something that might complicate matters. Nothing, so I lit the end with a cigarette lighter I carried for the occasional cigar I relished. The cloth flared when the flame reached the first damp spot, and seemed to hurry along the strip with too much speed. I moved as quickly as I dared in a crawl towards the back door. I didn't see any profile showing in the Mercedes' window when I glanced back, so I took a chance and made it through the door in an upright position. I stopped as soon as I was out of sight, and found my foot in a pool of yellow fluid with an ammonia smell. Good thing he didn't have other business to do.

I kept low and quiet as I made my way along the back of the building. At the corner I peeked around and didn't see anyone waiting there. I wondered how many people were involved in this trap. Two were too many, and I'd counted four already. While I put my shirt back on, I wondered how the fire I'd lit was doing. It had been a couple of minutes already, and I began to worry that I'd engineered a dud.

The open ground between buildings was going to be a problem. Even if they were looking in the opposite direction, toward the entry road, they would notice me crossing that stretch of bare concrete. If that makeshift bomb went off, I didn't want to be on this side of the pavement. The only option was to swing wide and keep low through the perimeter of overgrown weeds that surrounded the pavement on the side away from the entry road. I had made it nearly the entire distance and was even with the front of the warehouse when it happened.

First came two distinct pops, and I wondered why not three. No matter, a whooshing noise filled the air as the breeched tank emptied fuel onto the floor and ignited. The explosion drowned out every other noise. I looked back towards the building containing the vehicles and saw a bright orange flame blossom out through the door. A figure staggered out through the flame, but didn't make it far. Falling face down and writhing around for a few seconds until it was still. The door to the warehouse was open and three people were standing as if in shock watching the conflagration. Two other figures were running toward the warehouse along the entry road. They got within a few feet of the flames and then backed away from the heat. Another loud explosion marked the end of the Mercedes, and a second plume of fire came out the bay door like some huge dragon roasting the downed knight who lay unmoving on the concrete pavement. It caught the two closest guys unawares, and flaming liquid lit up bright spots on their heads and clothes.

Time to move. I scuttled along the end of the building to the hole in the floor Clark had used as an access point. Hopefully, nothing had been done to close it up. Being a bigger person than Clark I had considerably more difficulty worming into the hole and up to the floor. I left my share of cloth and skin next to Clark's on the ragged bottom of the sheet metal wall. It was dark inside, and I remembered Clark describing some sort of machine room with a hallway door at the corner next to some stairs. I chanced lighting my cigarette lighter for an instant and got a quick snapshot of the layout. I could hear voices outside, cursing up a storm and sounding panicked. Then one deeper voice rose above the rest, seeming to restore some sort of order. I couldn't understand the words, but it sounded like orders were being given.

I slowly made my way toward the door in the far corner of the room hoping to avoid stubbing anything on the machinery. The voices got louder as I progressed and by the time I'd gotten next to the door I could hear distinct words.

"You two take the girl in her pickup and go to the house," said deep voice. "Stop and get some burn salve on the way, I wouldn't want you to continue suffering as much as you obviously are. You are just a couple of pussies.

"Rocco, call Bran and Fedder and tell them to bring the Caddy and some heavy armament. Tell them to hurry. The three of us are going to stay here and do a search.

Hold on a second, Max. Give me the piece we took off the girl, Rocco. Max, take this with you and see if you can find out who lost it. It looks familiar."

I was armed with only my small pistol and the clip on board was all the ammo I had for it. I either had to stay out of the way until help arrived or I needed to upgrade my weaponry. Either course of action offered a challenge. I considered the stairway next to the door. There was no telling if it went anywhere useful, but I didn't think it would be the first place they'd look. Getting to the top with making noise might be a problem; I risked a quick light-up and was not reassured by what I saw. No handrail, and one of the steps I saw in the brief flare of light appeared to be hanging askew.

I tried to keep low on the stairs spreading the weight of my body over as much distance as possible. It went pretty well until step number eight, the one that was out of kilter. I barely touched it and it gave out a low, screeching moan that sounded loud enough to be heard in the next county. I reached over it to the next step up and was rewarded with a feeling of stability. Getting my feet across the loose stair was going to be a challenge, but I found that if I braced with both arms between the two next stairs I could take most of the weight off my lower end.

Another four steps and I reached an elevated walkway that went off in both directions to places unseen. I turned right in the direction of the voices and slowly advanced a few paces until I would have been above the doorway below. Another brief light showed that the walkway didn't end at a wall as I thought it might, but extended into the darkness at the far end of the building. Must be for maintenance access, I thought, maybe for lights or air conditioner. At least there was a hand rail on both sides of the walkway. That improved my outlook. As I shuffled along I listened for the voices, but all was quiet. Then a clang as a metal door was opened and I heard a woman's voice yell something rude.

"Shut up, Bitch! Come on stand up. You should be used to this routine from your last visit."

There were scuffling sounds and a woman's voice yelling barely intelligent words. Soon a car door slammed and all went quiet. For better or worse Angelina was out of the building. Hopefully nothing would happen to her until I could extract myself from this mess.

I continued moving ahead and soon noticed a faint line of light that must be seeping through a crack in the ceiling of the room where Angelina had been held. It gave enough light to see that another walkway crossed the one I stood on and apparently led to service areas above the rooms on the first floor. Looking off to the right there seemed to be a decrease in the darkness. Either I was getting used to the lack of light, or a light source lay in that direction. That seemed to be something I should take a look at.

There was a metallic clang from where I had been, and a shout of fear.

"Damn! I almost fell through the stairs, damn step is busted and hanging free. Look, I can even kick it back and forth."

That screech again, but multiple times as loud, followed by the sound of tortured metal giving way followed by a meaty thud.

"Jeeze, Rocco, you wasn't down there was you? Rocco? Ah shit!" Footsteps on the stairs faded with distance, and the light I hadn't noticed until then illuminated the girders in the ceiling above the stairway. "Rocco? Ah man!" The voice rose to a shout. "Boss, Boss come here! Rocco's down and bleeding like a stuck pig!"

"What the hell is going on?" Deep voice was at the base of the stairs, and I could see a distorted shadow of a man on the ceiling. "What did you do you numbskull? How did that happen?"

"It wasn't my fault, Boss. I was checking out the stairs and one of them came loose. Rocco was in the wrong place."

"Where do you idiots get your training" said deep voice, "at a clown school?"

"No Boss, we learned everything from you, Boss."  
I thought that might be the wrong thing to say. Turned out I was right.

"What did you say, Mickey? Say that one more time. I never heard last words like that before, and I want to hear them again."

Mickey apparently had a sudden intuition about what might come next. He didn't say anything more.

"Mickey, get back to the search. Look at all the machines in this room; you look behind and underneath every damn one of them."

"Sure Boss, sure. What about Rocco, Boss."

"I'm no doc and neither are you; leave him be. He'll either get up or he won't. If he's still breathing when Bran and Fedder get here you can haul his sorry ass to the emergency room. Meanwhile, I want that guy who lit up my ride found. Get busy."

"OK Boss, but how would he get in here anyway? The only door that ain't locked is the front door, and we would've seen him come in through there."

"Listen up genius. I just looked in the room on the other side of the hallway. There's a loading bay door in there that's partly open. That's how he got in. He's got to be back here someplace. Did you check out what's at the top of those stairs?"

"No man, that stair made a loud noise and fell down as I was trying to climb up. There's no way anybody got up there without us hearing him, unless he can fly."

"Maybe I'll fly you up there to look around. Go on, get busy, go check out the machines."

I breathed a sigh of relief, and turned to resume my study of the walkways. I clearly needed, but did not have a long-term plan. Sooner or later they would get around to looking up here. Besides the odds were temporarily in my favor--well maybe not in my favor but better than they had been. That would change when Bran and Fedder turned up. And then there was Angelina, on her way to an unknown location. Martin wouldn't have further need of her once Clark was out of the way. It might be that he hadn't figured me into that particular equation yet, but it would occur to him sooner or later; I had to wonder why he wasn't talking about Harmon not arriving. Perhaps I missed that part of the discussion.

I made my way, quietly as possible, to the intersection of walkways and turned onto the right hand crosswalk. At the end the light seemed to be brighter and I saw that the floor of the walkway was lit up over a missing acoustical tile in the ceiling of the room below. Squatting low I could see through the gap that the room below had an exterior door on the side I was facing. Must be the reception room of the building. The way out. Or was it? I thought that door had been knocked off its hinges by Fitzgerald. It has to be the same one, they must have fixed it. Not going to be a sprint out of an open doorway after all.

I waited for a few minutes to see whether anyone would come into the room, but heard or saw nothing. The one named Mickey was probably still searching the machine room, but Deep Voice might be anywhere. I couldn't stay perched up here for much longer and it seemed as good a time as any, so I began looking for a way to descend through the ceiling. The hole made by the missing acoustical tile was barely large enough to get through, but the grid framework that held the rest of the tiles in place wouldn't allow a bigger opening even if I removed other tiles. I pictured myself hung by the armpits halfway down to the floor. Steeling myself for what had a fifty percent chance of being a disaster I slowly lowered myself feet first and hanging onto the side of the floor of the walkway.

It was a five-foot drop to finish the maneuver, but I landed relatively quietly and quickly turned to look at the doorway that led to the interior of the building. So far, so good. I was less than five feet from the exterior door, and freedom. Two steps put me at the door knob and I reached out to turn it when a deep voice stopped me cold.

"Who the Hell are you, and how did you get here?"

I turned to face him and the first thing I noticed was the barrel of a .38 pointed directly at my mid-section. My own weapon was still in my pocket and I wouldn't stand a chance if I went for it. Nothing like trying a semi-truth.

"Are you Sylvester," I asked? "I've got a message for you from Harmon."

"I repeat," he said, "who are you?"

"I'm Paul Ness, Harmon told me to come and tell you he would be here later. What happened out there? It looks like a war zone?"

"Why would Hammy tell you to come see me? How do you know him?"

His aim hadn't wavered a fraction of an inch, and I struggled to come up with a believable answer.

"Hammy? That's funny! He didn't tell me his nickname. He asked me to help out with a few small problems he was having with collections. No big deal, I've been doing that stuff for years, and always had good results. He noticed how I worked and thought I'd fit in. I don't know why he told me to come out instead of someone else. You think you could point that thing in another direction?"

"How come I never heard of you?"

"Hell, I don't know chief. Maybe Harmon—Hammy—didn't see the need for talking our relationship around."

"I'm going to have to talk to Hammy about this. I don't like not having the details. Why didn't he come out himself?"

"Look, all he said was some guy he was supposed to meet up with didn't show up yet, and he didn't want to call you about it because he was in the middle of something big at the shop. That's all I know. How about it, I need to get back to town I got things to do."

"How'd you get out here? I didn't hear a car."

"I saw the burnt ground out there and decided I didn't want to drive in without checking the place out. I left my ride out near the main road behind some bushes."

"OK, good, you can give me a lift back to town. Hang on a minute while I tell Mickey what's going on."

He backed up into the doorway to the hall and turned his head to yell.

"Hey! Mickey, come out here now! I need to tell you something."

By the time he glanced back in my direction, I had the small piece out and pointed at him. I would have told him to drop his weapon and give up, but he pulled the trigger at the instant he saw my gun. I felt the bullet go into my thigh, but managed to keep standing. It was a reflex, and my pistol fired nearly at the same instant. Deep Voice took a round in the left shoulder, and he ducked back around the doorway into the hall. No doubt Mickey would be on top of me in seconds. I yanked the door opened and went out into the open.

Open was the right word for it. Nothing to hide behind anywhere nearby. I looked down at my leg and saw that blood was leaking out at a rapid rate, soaking my pants leg. I needed cover soon. The corner of the building off to my left was the closest thing to a place to hide behind. The wound didn't hurt yet, and I knew that would come along at any second, but it didn't slow me down much. I made the corner quickly, and kept going along the side towards the rear of the building. I still didn't have a clear plan, but at least I was out of sight for the moment. I stopped at the rear corner and peeked around at the back side of the building. There were three loading bays with doors. The two closest were closed tight, but I knew the third, and farthest, was partly open. The question was whether I wanted to go back inside the building. I looked down at my leg again; it was beginning to hurt. A pool of blood was starting to form on the soil by my left foot, and my sock felt soggy.

I kicked some loose soil and trash over the blood pooled on the ground and moved along the backside of the building. It might be a crappy choice, but going back inside seemed to be the only one available to me at the moment. The bay door was open nearly a foot and I thought I could squeeze through without having to open it more. I tried to look quickly inside, but the outside light had my eyes unaccustomed to darkness. I couldn't make out anything inside. No noise. That was good. No option but to give it a try. I went under the door gun arm first, ready to fire in the direction of movement or light from inside. Once fully inside, my eyesight compensated for the relative darkness and I could see the room behind the bay door was completely empty. I looked back the way I had come and saw the smear of blood on the loading bay floor. It extended outward to the edge of the loading platform. You'd have to be blind to miss it.

First things first, I took out a handkerchief and tied it around my leg over the wound as a sort of pressure bandage. That hurt like hell, but the flow of blood was stopped for the moment. I took off my shirt and belly down on the floor reached outside the bay door and tried to wipe up the blood stain. No way I was going to get it all, but maybe I could spread it out to dry so it didn't look so fresh and obvious. No time for more housekeeping, I thought, and crawled toward the interior door of the room. It opened inward, I saw and there would be a couple of feet behind it when fully opened. The best I could do for concealment. I wrapped the bloody shirt around my leg as an extra thickness of bandage and stood up to get into position against the wall. From my new position, I could hear voices from outside in the hallway.

"Boss, you're bleeding bad. We gotta get you to Doc right away."

"Damn, hurts like Hell! Damn bastard! You go out front and look around. If you see anybody shoot em! I can't raise anybody on my cell. There isn't any service in here. Wait a minute! First, you help me get back to the office at the front of the building. I'll wait there until someone shows up. Listen, if you don't see anybody outside you move away from the building and try to get a signal on your phone. If you do, call Bran and tell him to hurry the Hell up!"

I was torn between going after the guy with the deep voice or staying put. What if I did put him under the gun? I'd either have to keep him covered and quiet or shoot him. After the guy burning up because of my experiment with fire, I was reluctant to simply put him down. That wasn't my style Besides, I might need him alive for information at some point. Putting him under arrest wasn't much of an alternative. Me wounded with one more guy on site, no transportation, and two more on the way. The odds stunk. Stay put and play it out. I'll take the default position. News wasn't long in coming.

"Boss, I got a signal right outside the door! Bran and Fedder are about ten minutes away."

"Good! Any sign of that guy who shot me?"

"No, Boss."

"You sure? I think I might have winged him."

"I looked around the sides of the building and across the lot in that building where the cars are burning. I didn't see anything."

"Shit! He must have made it to his car. He said it was parked out on the road somewhere."

"What now, Boss?"

"You go back and see if Rocco is awake yet. Either way try and get him up here and ready to go."

"Oh, yeah, Rocco! I almost forgot!"

"You damn knucklehead!"

I heard the one named Mickey come back into the hallway and walk toward the machine room. I hoped he didn't get curious about this room. He might have more than enough on his mind already, since it seemed to be a fairly small space. Sure enough he tried waking the other guy up by shouting at him, and when that didn't work I heard grunts and huffing and puffing along with a scraping sound that seemed to indicate Mickey was having quite a time dragging the other one down the hallway to the office.

"What," Deep Voice said, "you mean he's still out of it? What did you do to the guy Mickey? Is he still breathing?"

"Yeah, Boss, I checked on it and he's still breathing and warm even."

"You're a damn genius Mickey. Just sit still and be quiet until Bran gets here."

Bran must have picked up his speed because not more than five minutes later, I heard the squeal of breaks outside the building and a new voice soon afterward.

"Hey Boss.....what happened to you Man? Jesus, you're bleeding all over the place! What happened Mickey? Why is Rocco lying there like that? Damn, did you guys run into a squad of cops? Two guys burned but living, one guy crisped, one guy unconscious, the Boss bleeding like a stuck pig—Hell Mickey, how did you manage to get away with no injuries?"

"Hey Bran, it's not like I wasn't doing my job. I just didn't happen to be in the wrong place for once."

"Shut up!" Said Deep Voice. "All of you just shut up and help me get to the car. Mickey, you drag that piece of useless horse shit out by yourself."

There were more sounds of huffing, puffing and scraping that were punctuated by the slamming of a door. A car started and engine noises faded in the distance. I didn't know which hurt more my head or my leg. It seemed like a good time to sit down and take a little nap.

CHRIS

I dropped Heather off at her station and made her promise to get in touch with Sinclair as soon as she could and tell him about Angelina. I headed east toward the 495 hoping I could remember the way to the warehouse. I missed the exit I was looking for and took the next ramp intending to turn around. The road going south from the ramp was closed off by a patrol car, and the officer directed me back to west bound 495 saying that an accident had closed the road but I could take the next off ramp to the west and get where I was headed. I wondered what could have happened on a one lane country road so serious as to close it off entirely. Not my problem.

As soon as I turned left at the bottom of the correct ramp I recognized the road ahead of me. The warehouse would be just a mile or two away. I picked up speed not wanting to be too late for Angelina when I saw a pickup coming the other way that looked familiar. As it passed, I could see a girl jammed into the front seat between two guys. I was too late, they had her. I found a wide spot in the road and made a U-turn, almost losing control and going into a drainage ditch. By the time I had Heather's car backed up and onto the pavement once more, my pickup was out of sight and probably already on the ramp to the 495.

By the time I'd gotten back on the highway, I was settled down enough to try and think straight. I wasn't going to drive up, flash my lights and ask them please hand over the young lady. In fact, trying anything on a high-speed highway was probably a good way to get myself killed. I looked at the speedometer and saw it was topping eighty-five. It wouldn't do any good to get pulled over for speeding in a car that wasn't mine either. I dropped back to a leisurely sixty-five or so and keep my eyes on the road ahead. Each off-ramp I passed was a possible mistake being made, but I didn't think the people I was trying to tail were headed for anyplace other than Silver Spring. It was when I started going past the first off-ramp at the edge of town that I really started to worry that I would miss them. Then, just at the top of the next ramp a pair of taillights went red and the color of the truck they were attached to was very familiar. I hoped I wasn't going the wrong way as I slowed to take the off-ramp a couple of cars behind.

At the bottom of the ramp the truck was waiting behind a small sedan for the light to change. I could see that there were three people in the cab and the one in the middle was shorter. I was certain I had it right by then, and the glimpse I got of the license plate as they turned right confirmed it. I didn't know the name of the road or where it was in relation to downtown, but it looked to be an up-scale neighborhood. I followed my truck through a couple of left turns and then a right onto a tree-lined avenue. Large, expensive-looking houses were set back well away from the road. Two blocks farther and the truck turned onto a cement driveway, stopping at a gate. I drove slowly past as the driver punched in a code on an elevated pad at the driver's side window and the gate started to swing open. I had the passing thought that it must be Sylvester Martin's house and that he was doing pretty well for himself. I caught a flash of white on the curb with the numbers 12515 stenciled in black. Probably put there by some high school kid trying to earn a couple of bucks.

I made a U-turn and drove back to a point opposite the driveway. My truck could be seen in the driveway just in front of the house and the front door was just closing. I needed help. I dialed Heather's cell number and caught her on the third ring. She said that she had left a message for Sinclair but had not heard back from him. She asked me if I knew Officer Fitzgerald.

"No, who is he?"

"Guy has come to trust him as one of the unsullied in the department. I understand that Fitzgerald knows most of what is happening. I'm only suggesting that you might want to bring him in on your discoveries."

"That might be a good thing to do, especially if Sinclair is not communicating with you. Do you know where Sinclair is right now?"

"Guy asked me to give Fitzgerald a message about evidence from a place in the country and that there might be more evidence soon."

"Oh! That must refer to the warehouse. Did you leave the message for Fitzgerald?"

"Yeah, sure, but I have no idea if he paid any attention to it."

"Maybe Sinclair was headed out to the warehouse. But they took Angelina away from there already. She was in my pickup truck with two men and I followed them to a big house on Belmont Avenue. I'm parked across from there now, but I don't know what to do next."

"Chris, if you want my opinion I'd just stay put until you hear from Guy or Fitzgerald. I think it would be really dangerous for you to go it alone. You might wind up being held captive, or worse."

"You're probably right, Heather, but I can't wait forever. What if they do something to Angelina while I'm sitting on my butt just across the street?"

"Chris, give me a chance to get in touch with Guy. I'll call you as soon as I do. OK?"

"OK, but I hope it's very soon. 'Bye."

I sat there in the car for another half-hour, staring at the door of the house across the street and listening to the radio. A plain manila envelope was stuffed into the space between the center console and driver's seat. I wondered if it was something that Heather had mistakenly left behind. I thought that maybe I should open it to see if it seemed important when a small blue SUV with yellow dome lights pulled up behind me. A uniformed man got out from the driver's side and walked to my opened window. He had the words "Apex Security' embroidered on the front of his shirt.

"Sir, do you have a problem?"

"Yeah, I'm making a delivery," I improvised, "but I can't find the address. I'm supposed to deliver this envelope to a party at 12515 Belmont Avenue, but none of these places has a street number showing. How are you supposed to find any place around here?"

"Most people use GPS, Sir."

"Yeah, well, I don't have any. I'm just a part timer and I didn't feel the need to invest in something like that for a job that pays peanuts."

"Yes Sir, I understand. You aren't far off the mark, in fact that house just across the way is the one you're looking for."

"No kidding! I was kind of guessing that might be it, but felt embarrassed about trying to deliver and finding out I'd guessed wrong. Hey Man, thanks a lot!"

I watched him go back to his vehicle and having no choice started the engine and turned the wheel to cross the road and pull into the driveway. I stopped just short of the gate at the elevated key pad. I glanced back and saw the security guy was still parked and was looking at me. Now what?

What the hell, I thought, I'll at least give it a try. I punched in one, two three, four on the keypad. Maybe luck was still with me. Ten seconds, and nothing happened. I was tempted to push the call button and wait for a response. Maybe I could lie my way in. That didn't seem to be the smart thing to do. I backed out onto the avenue and pulled even with the security vehicle. "No one home," I said. "I can't just leave it there. I guess I'll try back later. Thanks for your help."

Mr. Security gave me a nod, but didn't make a move to leave. I had no option but to drive away. Now that I was on Security's radar, my choices of access were severely limited. I drove to the next cross street and turned right; hoping that some other route of access would present itself. Like this service alley that ran between the back lot lines of the private residences. Sure, people who lived around here wouldn't want to leave their trash cans out on the main road. I looked in the rearview mirror. The security vehicle was right behind me. I kept driving forward until I left the neighborhood. As soon as the housing started to have that tract look, the security vehicle stopped and I could imagine the guy watching my progress out of the area. I complied with his unstated instructions.

A small shopping plaza at the next corner with open parking gave me an opportunity to settle in and consider what to do next. No point in even trying to drive back to the house on Belmont Avenue in this car. Security-guy would have deep suspicions if I tried to leave it parked anywhere in his view. It would be almost a half-mile walk, but I didn't see any other way in.

I called Heather and told her where her car would be parked. She still had not made contact with Sinclair or the other cop. I told her what I had in mind. She was quiet for a few seconds, but then gave a sigh and told me to be careful.

There was a hardware store in the shopping plaza. I felt homesick for a moment, but then compiled a small shopping list for things that might come in handy over the next few hours. The cash I had left was barely sufficient to cover my purchases, but I still felt uneasy about using a credit card. I stopped by Heather's car one more time to sort through my purchases and stow them away in the handyman vest I'd bought. Didn't want anything clanking around. The only thing that didn't fit was the heavy duty bolt cutter, but I hoped that I wouldn't need it for long, if at all.

It was mid-afternoon by the time I set off to hike back to Martin's house. I'd been out of sight of the place for more than thirty minutes by then, and hoped that Angelina had not been moved in the meanwhile. I would have no way of knowing. My cell phone hadn't even squeaked in that time and I began to wonder what was going on with Sinclair. Surely Heather had gotten in touch with him by now, but if she hadn't and he really did go back out to the warehouse many possibilities were in play. A lot of them were unpleasant to contemplate.

I kept to the edge of the sidewalk when I entered the rich guys' domain. I couldn't see any vehicles on the road in front of me, but security could be actively patrolling and I would have little or no warning before being spotted. There were a few scattered shrubs to hide behind, but that left long stretches ahead without cover of any sort. I was a nervous wreck by the time I came even with the service alley I'd noticed before. The alley was flanked on both sides by high block walls with steel gates set at the middle of each parcel back line. They looked impenetrable and I began to wonder if the equipment I'd bought was up to the task ahead. There was one thing in my favor: each gate had a small metal tag imprinted with the street address of the property. No way I'd break into the wrong mansion.

Suddenly there it was, 12515 Belmont, identical to every one of the gates I'd seen so far. I guess custom design didn't extend to the service entrance. Hinges were on the inside, of course, and the only projection on the alley side was a simple lever type knob, no key hole and no evidence of points of weakness. I tried pushing the gate inward. It didn't budge. The edges of the gate were well behind the jamb of the opening. No chance of getting a tool in to jimmy the latch. Just in case my luck had made a return engagement I tried turning the lever. Solid, not a millimeter of give. I had to admit that custom or not, quality of construction was high. It would have to be the hard way then.

I hung the tow hook over the top of the gate and tied on the rope through the eye of the hook. I tied the rope in a way that gave me a foot hold and put my right foot into the loop. Slow and quiet I stood up in the loop and once my eyes were level with the top of the gate could look around. The back yard was bare of any bushes, trees or vines that would supply cover. Once I was over the wall I would be fully exposed over the thirty feet or so of open ground between the wall and the back of the house. I used the small binoculars I'd bought to get a closer look at the back of the house. A glass sliding door and six windows would let anyone inside have a full view of the back yard. In my favor, the door and two of the windows had drapes or shades drawn closed. Of the four windows remaining three were on the second floor and the fourth seemed to be a kitchen window. I could see cabinets on the wall behind the window. What were the odds that anyone would be looking out of the windows? Probably fairly low. At least that's what I hoped as I swung my legs over the top of the gate and then lowered myself to the ground on the other side.

I kept to the right hand side of the lot as I quickly made my way toward the back of the house. Once there, I kept low enough to not expose myself at window height and stopped below each of the windows to listen for sounds from within the house. I covered the back of the house then made my way along the side. Only one window was at the ground floor level and the gap between the side of the house and the wall between lots was wide open. Once at the front corner of the house, I could see across the front yard all the way to the front gate. No cover at all. I kept close to the house and returned to a point below the window. There, I heard the first noise. It was the sound of a toilet flushing. I gave it a few minutes and then raised up to look into the window. Frosted glass. Well, it was a bathroom after all. As I watched, a light was turned off and the room darkened.

This was probably going to be my best chance at getting in without being noticed. I could see that the window was a typical construction with top and bottom halves and a latch set in the middle between the halves. I used a glass cutter on a pivot to score a circle just below the latch in the lower pane. I hoped the tapping to run the score wouldn't attract attention, but I used my handkerchief to dampen the sound and made it all the way around the score feeling confident that the noise had not been too loud. A gentle tug on the suction cup lifted the circular piece of glass out of the way, and I had a hand inside and working the latch in seconds.

It was a small window, but I managed to hoist myself up over the sill and as I'd done at Kurt's house slid head first down onto the bathroom floor. I was getting to be an expert on breaking and entering via windows. I had left the bolt cutter on the ground outside the window and hoped that no one would check the grounds in the near future. It would certainly cause alarm if spotted. The bathroom door was half open, and I crossed the room to stand behind it and listen for nearby noises or voices. Nothing. I risked a quick peek into the hallway beyond and saw it led off in both directions. The rear of the house was to the right, and I remembered that the kitchen was in that direction. Off to the left was the front of the house, and there were four closed doors giving access to rooms off the hallway in that direction. One was on the same side of the hallway as the bathroom and the other three on the opposite side. I guessed that they would all be bedrooms. If Angelina was still here, I wondered if they might not keep her locked in one of them. Only one way to find out.

The hallway was carpeted and I walked without noise to the first of the doors on the opposite side of the hall. I listened for sounds from within, but heard nothing. The knob turned freely in my hand and I pushed the door open just a crack. It was dark inside, no lights no windows. Enough light came through the open door to see the room was empty. Just a large bed and a couple pieces of furniture. There were doors in all four of the walls. A couple of sliding doors to the right must be the closet. A narrow door in the left-hand wall might lead to the next room down the hall. The door in the opposite wall must lead to the rest of the house. It made more sense to continue my search by way of those doors instead of the open hallway where anyone could show up at any time heading for the bathroom or kitchen. I was glad I remembered to lower the shade in the bathroom; it would make someone seeing the hole in the glass less likely.

I crossed to the closet door and slid it open. No clothes, no extra bedding. Nothing except a set of folding tables like you set up to eat your meal while watching TV. There weren't even any clothes hangers. The shelf above the empty closet rod had a folded blanket and pillow but nothing else.

I closed the sliding door and walked over the door in the left-hand wall. It was locked, but had one of those openings in the face of the knob where you could insert a small screwdriver to disengage the lock. I did that and turning the knob, opened the door slightly. It was dark in there also, but by now my eyes had become adjusted to the darkness and could make out a toilet, washstand, and shower stall. It was a large bathroom and had doors leading off in all four directions. I thought it likely that this would be the one most used by residents.

The door in the opposite wall would most likely lead to another bedroom. I hoped that Angelina would be in there. I was running out of options, and going out into the main part of the house was not something I wanted to do. The suddenly loud voice just beyond the right-hand door put an exclamation point to that disinclination.

"Felix, I'm going to make a pot of coffee. You want anything from the kitchen?"

"Nah," replied a more distant voice, "I could use a beer, but the Boss would have my head if he caught me drinking one on the job. When did he say he would be here?"

"An hour or two, Mickey said. Something happened out there after we left, and they had to make a stop somewhere to get something fixed, he said."

"Where are they stopping?"

"He said at the Doc's place. Wonder if that means they got hold of the guy who set off the bomb and need to get him patched up."

"Why patch him up? He's dead meat anyway."

"I don't know Felix; just guessing that's all. Hey, check the girl again, will you? Maybe she needs to pee or something."

I heard another door open, and a muffled voice came from the room I had intended to investigate next.

"Hey girly, you need anything? Water, bathroom, a little personal attention? Heh heh."

Again the muffled voice. I couldn't understand what it said, but it sounded angry.

"Same to you girly. Don't say I didn't ask. Just lie still and it will all be over before you know it. Soon as Sylvester gets here, we'll see how tough you really are."

The sound of a door closing, but the muffled voice from the next room said some more words I couldn't understand. They didn't sound kind. I unlocked the door and turned the knob. There was a dim light in the room that showed me everything inside. There she was. Tied up and lying on a bed with a gag in her mouth. Her legs and arms were tied to the four bedposts with rope. I must have made some sort of noise because she suddenly turned her head in my direction. I could hear her gasp in surprise. I went to her side and removed the gag, holding my hand over her mouth to keep her from saying anything out loud.

"Angelina, you need to stay quiet. I think there are just two of them, but they are expecting someone else to come soon, aren't they?"

She nodded yes, and whispered "How did you find me, Chris? Why did you come? Now you are in danger, too."

"We'll talk about it later. Right now we have to find a way to get out of here without drawing their attention."

Just then a shout came from somewhere in the front of the house. "Felix, get your ass out here. Somebody is opening the gate. It's too soon for the Boss, so come up and help me keep the lid on!"

There were pounding footfalls in the room beyond the door and they came from the direction of the kitchen and headed toward the summoning voice. We kept still, trying to discover if the disturbance was something we could use in our favor. Another door opened from the front of the house and indistinct voices could be heard arguing. Only names came across with any clarity and apparently somebody named Teddy was on the end of a reaming from the two housemates. After a couple of minutes we heard the front door, if that's what it was, slam shut. The footsteps approached once again this time going toward the kitchen. As he passed, we heard him mutter "Asshole!"

It was time to move. If the Sylvester guy was coming soon, we did not want to be here. I untied Angelina and while she massaged her wrists and ankles, I locked the two doors that were most likely to be used by the men returning to collect Angelina. I would have liked to barricade the doors as well to slow them down, but the sparse furniture didn't offer adequate barrier material. The best I could manage was to take the slats from under the mattress and angle them under the bottom of the door knobs in the same way they used chair backs in the movies. It wouldn't slow them down much, but it was better than nothing.

We went out through the bathroom that was shared by the two bedrooms and into the dark bedroom beyond. We were about to open the door and go across into the bathroom with the window I had broken through when another commotion arose from the front of the house, and footsteps pounded as Felix headed for the front room once again. The voices were even more indistinct here, but I thought I heard the word 'Boss' clearly. Now it was really time to move. I made to open the door to the hallway, but it came open before my hand could touch the knob.

SINCLAIR

A warm breeze was blowing and the air was heavy with humidity. The palm fronds kept the sun from burning directly upon me. The white sand under me felt like a thousand dollar mattress and I thought how nice it would be to rest here forever. I wondered if Heather would like it here, too. It would all be perfect if it wasn't for that intermittent noise that disturbed my daydreaming. I could almost make out words: Sin, Sin, Sin followed by Cla, Cla, Cla. That brought a frown to my face; there was nothing I wanted more than to continue this vacation undisturbed. Gradually the noises rearranged themselves and seemed to make a little more sense: Sincla, Sincla, Sincla. Something shook the sand I was laying on causing me to finally lose track of my dream. The noise became more insistent, and the sunlight began to fade. So did the breeze. I started to miss them, but soon my attention was drawn to the way the sand underneath was shifting, and becoming hard and cold. How strange.

"Sinclair, Detective Sinclair, wake up! You need to wake up, Sir!

I tried opening my eyes. There was a very bright light just in front of my face. It hurt my eyes, so I closed them again. Someone shook my shoulder and shouted in my ear.

"Wake up!"

It seemed as though they weren't going to go away, so I tried opening my eyes again to see who it was.

"That's the way Detective! Good. Do you think you can stand up?"

I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do less, but didn't want to get shouted at again. All I had to do was figure out how to stand up. I should be able to do that, shouldn't I? I felt a pair of hands around my arms grab hold and pull. OK, that might work. I gradually got the hang of it and managed to get my feet under me. The light was down below me now and I could see a dim shape in its diffused glow. It was a face. I know that face. It is Fitzgerald's face. I smiled at it, at least I thought it was a smile.

"Does that hurt, Sir? Do you need to sit down again?"

I tried talking, but the noises my mouth made didn't sound like words. I tried again.

"Fitzgerald," much better, "Officer Fitzgerald what's going on?"

"Detective Sinclair," he said, "you have been hurt. Your leg wound looks serious, but I'm more concerned with the gash on your forehead. You seem to be suffering disorientation and have trouble speaking distinctly. We need to get you to a hospital."

"No," I managed, "can't do that. They have the girl, Angelina, and we have to find them before they do something to her."

"Sir, you are in no condition to play rescuer. You need medical attention."

My head was clearing rapidly and I could remember most of what had happened. With my recollections came a resumption of pain. Maybe Fitzgerald had a point.

"Look, Fitzgerald, there's no time for the emergency room, but maybe Heather can patch me up enough to get me back on track. You know Heather?"

"She left a message for me on voice mail. That's how I knew where to find you. Is she a doctor?"

"Next best thing, she's an EMT and is good at temporary patchwork. Give her a call and set up a place to meet her in Silver Spring. I can make it that far without treatment."

"There's no signal inside this building, Sir. We'll need to get someplace else to try and call out."

It was a struggle, but Fitzgerald kept me upright and before long we were outside and walking toward his patrol car. Smoke was still coming out of the loading bay doors of the building on the other side of the parking area, and a sooty looking lump about the size of a man was lying on the concrete in front of the doors. Fitzgerald got me settled in the passenger seat and went around the get behind the wheel.

"Sir, what happened here? It looks like something out of a war movie."

"I was trying to make it difficult for the bad guys to get away, and apparently my methods got a bit out of hand."

"Yes Sir, I can see that. Did you, by any chance, have anything to do with the one-vehicle accident off of the 495 on Apple Orchard Road? The highway patrol called in a report that the vehicle involved appeared to be an unmarked cruiser, and they said the one DOA at the scene carried a badge. At first, I thought it might be you. They didn't give a name over the air, of course, but the description they gave didn't fit."

"Yeah, that's Harmon. He was taking me out to have a word with his boss, Sylvester Martin. I thought it advisable to short-circuit that effort. That's how I got the bump on the head."

"You mean that you crashed on purpose?"

"Yes I did, but to be honest, I didn't expect quite so decisive a result. I was aiming just to shake him up a bit and disarm him."

"From the report I heard, you did more that take his arm off, Sir."

"Funny, Fitzgerald, I'm not sure I'm ready for humor at the moment."

"Yes Sir, I'll try that call now, Sir."

I could tell from the tone of Fitzgerald's part of the conservation that Heather had a few difficult-to-answer questions for him. All in all, he did a fairly good job of convincing her that the emergency room was not an option at present. She agreed to meet us at my apartment. I only hoped that no one was keeping an eye on the place.

An hour later I was sufficiently patched to navigate on my own once more. It still hurt, but I didn't want to take any pain killers, opting instead for clarity of thought. Trouble was, I didn't have any idea of how to go about finding the girl. Once more Heather came to the rescue.

"Guy," she said, "I talked to Christopher Clark a couple of times today. He told me that he followed a pair of guys who had Angelina with them. They went to a house in Silver Spring on Belmont Avenue."

"How did he know who to follow?"

"Apparently, they were in his pickup truck."

"And that happened how?"

"He was on his way to the warehouse to attempt a rescue when his truck went by going in the opposite direction. He turned around and followed it. The last time I talked to him, he was going to try and gain access to the property."

"That kid needs to quit playing superhero."

"Look who's talking," she said.

"OK, the problem is still the same. I don't know who else I can trust for backup. Talking to the wrong guy could make the situation even worse. By now, there might be two people in need of rescue, and we don't know the strength of the enemy. Except...how could I forget... I shot the guy who might be Martin. In the shoulder. It's not bad enough to keep him out of the action, but it probably slowed him down. He'll need treatment."

"Not likely," said Heather, "that he'd go to a doctor or emergency room."

"No, not a doctor who would report the incident. But, there have been noises about some medico who might be on the gang payroll. When we found Cipriano's body, it had a bullet wound that had been bandaged, and there were injection holes where an IV might have been plugged in. The level of treatment was much higher than you would expect a street hood to be capable of attaining. I still don't have an ID for this supposed medico, but he, or she, is someone local."

"Huh!" Heather had a thoughtful look on her face. "There's has been some noise around the county hospital ER over the past couple of years about someone taking up the slack when multiple injuries were reported during gang dust ups. The punks who show up at the ER occasionally look around and ask about other people who were hurt badly enough to require treatment. Sometimes they probably wind up at other treatment facilities, but I know for sure that two of them never received treatment anywhere else. I know, because I got curious and checked around. I almost mentioned it to you, Guy, but it was a couple of weeks until I saw you again and it slipped my mind."

"You don't know anything about who it might be?"

"No," she replied, "no idea at all."

"That's for later, then. Fitzgerald, it looks to be up to you and me. Are you in?"

"Yes Sir, what's the plan?"

"First thing is to take a look at this Belmont Avenue house and get some idea of what we might be up against. Heather, thank you for the TLC, I owe you big time."

"You'd better believe it, Guy. I can't tell you how pissed I'm going to be if you get yourself killed so that I can't collect! Fitzgerald, you look out for him, anything happens to him and I might just come after you!"

"Yes Ma'am! I will because I am going to be in a very difficult position if he's not around to cover my ass with higher ups in the department."

"Damn," I said, "glad to see that you both have your self-interests out there front and center."

Fitzgerald headed out the door, but I hung back to go to my gun safe and retrieve the .45 and extra clips I kept there for emergencies. I was almost out the door, but held up for a second and gave Heather a hug. Gotta keep on her good side, you never know when you'll need a suture or two.

We argued about whether or not to take Fitzgerald's patrol car. He thought it would make the Martin bunch sit up and take notice and then be careful about doing anything rash. I thought that just the reverse was true; they'd panic and do something really stupid, like killing off their hostage and trying to hide the fact. I won, so we stopped by his apartment and he changed into civvies and got his private vehicle out of the parking garage. From there, the drive to Belmont Avenue only took a few minutes.

A couple of slow passes on Belmont showed the difficulties in mounting a direct frontal assault. The front gate at 12515 Belmont looked as though it could stand up against anything smaller than a tank; and the surrounding wall was solid cinder block six feet high. I spotted a closed circuit camera up on a pole in the corner of the lot and was willing to bet that the whole area was covered by security cameras monitored from the house. We were about to start our third pass when a small blue SUV approached from the opposite direction and the driver flagged us down.

Fitzgerald pulled over to the curb and waited for the driver to get out and come over to his window. I thought I recognized the guy and tried to keep my face turned away.

"Do you two have business in this neighborhood?" the Apex Security Man began. "If so, you should declare it now. The residents value their privacy, and soliciting is strictly forbidden."

"I'd like to see your identification." Fitzgerald said. "You are interfering with an official investigation into reports of suspicious behavior by persons supposedly representing security companies."

Fitzgerald flashed his ID in the face of the security guy without letting him get a good view of it. Quick thinking, I thought. The boy really is going to go far.

"What? Oh, sure thing officer. Just a minute while I dig it out."

"Thank you." Fitzgerald examined the proffered picture ID with intensity that must have put the guy on edge. Seemingly satisfied, he handed it back and asked, "Have you noticed any unusual activity lately? The reports are mostly from residents on the next street over, but we are checking the entire neighborhood to be through."

"Well, there was a guy who said he was delivering a package earlier, but he left without going up to any doors so far as I know."

"What did he look like?"

"About six foot tall, fairly slim, brown and brown, short hair, plaid shirt and jeans. He drove a beat-up yellow Corolla."

"OK, that does not match the description we have, but if he comes back, you should call it in and ask for Sergeant McGuire."

I chanced a glance at the fellow's face and saw him react to the name in a way that said he knew it. My last doubts disappeared; he was the person who I had seen hanging out with Harmon several days previously. I wondered how many outriders were floating around this neighborhood.

We watched him go back to his ride and start up. He pulled a U-turn and drove past us slowly. He had a cell phone up to his ear. Not so good. We drove ahead and turned right at the next corner. I didn't think it would be a good idea to stick around much longer. On the way out of the neighborhood, we passed a service alley that went along the rear property line of the houses fronting on Belmont Avenue. Fitzgerald and I exchanged looks and nodded at each other.

There was a small shopping plaza a couple of blocks farther on. We pulled into the parking lot and found a place to park next to a yellow Corolla. It was beat up. I'd have to ask Heather why she didn't take more pride in her ride. We locked up and headed back the way we had come, but this time on foot. We practically ran until we came to the service alley. I didn't relish having the security guy catch us afoot. We counted roof tops until we reached the one corresponding to 12515 Belmont. The little metal plaque on the back gate to the property confirmed our count. There was a hook hanging from the top of the gate and a rope hanging down on the alley-side with a loop tied into it. I could imagine Clark with his foot in the loop trying to go over the top of the gate. That the hook and rope were still here was at least a positive sign. Maybe he hadn't been discovered yet.

Fitzgerald put his foot in the loop and raised up high enough to look over the top of the gate. After a few minutes he came back down and told me what the layout looked like.

"It's open ground to the rear of the house. Zero cover, but the shades are drawn in some of the windows and the door. The deadbolt on this gate is a simple turn knob. No keyed lock. If I go over first, I can open it for you."

"Sounds like a plan. How do we decide when to go?"

"I don't know. It would be nice if we had some sort of distraction out front to draw their attention away from the back yard."

"Sure, got one of those on you? Wait up, You've got your cell, right?"

"Yeah. Want to use it?"

"Yes, please."

I dialed up information and asked for the number for Apex Security, and had the operator connect me.

"Apex Security," the voice on the phone purred, "how may I direct your call?"

"I need to report a break in," I replied, "they are in the front yard trying to get into the front door. Please help me."

"May I have your address and account number?"

"The address is 12515 Belmont Avenue. Do you honestly expect me to remember my account number when someone might be trying to break in to kill me! Tell that nice young man who drives around here all the time to come and stop them. Oh, my! The front door is opening! Hurry! Hurry!"

"Were you trying to sound like an old woman?"

"Yeah, I was. How did I do?"

"Don't go into acting unless you like negative reviews."

It was less than five minutes before we heard a high-pitched beeping noise coming from Belmont Avenue. Then a ratcheting noise that could only be the front gate retracting. That should do it. Fitzgerald hopped the gate and unlocked it to let me in. We left it slightly ajar, just in case a rapid retreat became necessary. The wall on the left side of the yard threw a shadow at three in the afternoon, so we made our way along that wall towards the house. The shadow extended all the way to the side of the house, keeping that narrow open space out of direct sunlight. Creeping along the side of the house we went nearly to the front. Raised voices came back from that direction.

"What the Hell are you doing here Teddy?"

"The office radioed that there was a break-in here. They said someone was coming through the front door."  
"Yeah? You see anyone around Teddy? You don't think we could handle it anyway? Who called, did they say?"

"Kate said it was an older woman with a cracked voice. Like a heavy smoker voice."

"I think Kate's been on the sauce, Teddy. Tell her to check her records. Some old woman is probably getting murdered somewhere right now."

"OK, you sure nothing is going on here?"

"Nothing you need to know about, Teddy. You don't want to be anywhere near here when the Boss comes, and he's due in a few minutes. Go on now, beat it."

Fitzgerald and I worked our way back to the only window on this side of the house. There was a pair of heavy duty bolt cutters resting against the side of the house below the window. I looked up and saw that the window shade was pulled, but the window had a frosted texture like for a bathroom. There was a neat circular hole in the lower pane, just below the latch.

"I guess we know where Clark got off to," I said. "It's going to get pretty crowded in there what with the Boss coming. If you give me a hand up, I think I can get in without much trouble."

"You sure about that, Detective? That hole in your leg might restrict your movements."

"I'm not staying out here, if that is what you are suggesting. Come on, put your hands together, or I can stand on your back if you prefer."

The window opened smoothly and without noise, like it had been oiled. Maybe it had, Clark seemed to have his B and E skills going full on. I managed to get my midriff over the sill and hand walked my body across the floor, my legs following along until it came to the bandage over my leg wound. I bit my lip and tried not to cry out. Fitzgerald must have caught on because he lifted the affected leg clear of the sill and I finished lying on the floor breathing hard with tears of pain in my eyes.

I watched as Fitzgerald hoisted himself up onto the sill and flowed like an acrobat in through the window without making the slightest noise. He came to rest next to me and nodded.

"Showoff," I whispered.

I got up and went to stand by the door leading to the next room. I peeked out and saw that it was a hallway leading off in two directions. Off to the left four doors led to other rooms as the longer part of the hallway led to the front of the house. Some noises were coming from the other direction, it sounded like clinking dishware. OK, kitchen to the right...occupied kitchen to the right, I amended. I gave Fitzgerald a hand sign that I hoped he interpreted as let's go across the hallway into that door over there. He glanced in that direction and nodded. My sign language skills must not be that bad. We were halfway to our objective when a shout from the front of the house froze us in our tracks.

Much commotion from that direction ensued, but got even louder when a door opened and a familiar deep voice blared.

"Hey, my favorite numbskulls! What's going on boys? The little girl been giving you trouble?"

We quickly covered the remaining space to the door we'd been aiming for and without ado opened it up. It was a toss-up who was more surprised: me or Clark.

"Chris! We knew you were going to come here, but expected that you would be tied up beside Angelina by now."

"I've been lucky so far," he said, "but it won't be long before that might change. We heard them talking about their boss coming soon, and from all that noise I'd guess he's probably arrived. We were going to try to get out of here."

"How many of them are there, do you know?"

"There were just the two of them," Angelina replied, "and they were at the warehouse. But, there were three other men at the warehouse also, and if he's brought them along that makes six all together."

"Minus one," I said, "but if they didn't leave the two new arrivals there it might total seven. The odds are certainly not in our favor, despite the possible element of surprise we have. Even more important, you two are civilians and whether or not you are out for revenge, you don't belong in this fight. We are getting out of here right now. And, no arguments young lady!"

I took her silence for agreement, and opened the door back up a crack. The voices were still concentrated at the front of the house, and I couldn't hear anything from the direction of the kitchen.

"Officer Fitzgerald, I don't think it makes a lot of sense to try and get all of us out through the window. I'm going down the hall and try to get a look into the kitchen. I think the double doors at the back of the house are either in the kitchen or near there. Keep everyone low and out of sight. No talking!"

He nodded. I opened the door just enough to get out of the room and made my way down the passageway leading to the rear of the house. All remained quiet in that direction, but it sounded as though things might be heating up at the front of the house. Deep Voice was laying into someone mercilessly.

I stopped at the open archway that separated hall from kitchen and peered around the corner into that room. All clear, and the door was located just as I had hoped between the kitchen and another room that looked like a dining area. The door was obscured by a set of vertical blinds, but it was a large double door that had sliding panels. I went across the kitchen and pulled the blinds aside enough to get a look at the door handle. It was a simple affair with a lever lock. I took a chance and opened the door slightly. It made a grinding noise as if it hadn't been opened in a long while and had a layer of grit in the track. I pushed it a bit more and stopped to listen for noises from the front. Deep Voice was giving what sounded like an order. Another little push and the door was open wide enough to get through. I didn't think we had a lot of time left before Angelina's absence would be noticed.

I returned to the dark bedroom as quickly as I dared and opened the door. Fitzgerald was standing in the opening with his service revolver pointed in my direction. He lowered it immediately upon recognizing me.

"Come on!" I said. "They are getting ready to do something and we need to get out of here now!"

Fitzgerald went first, with Angelina and Chris close behind. I brought up the rear; weapon drawn and ready. In the kitchen Fitzgerald held the vertical blinds to the side and gestured for Angelina and Chris to go outside, then he pointed to me. I didn't feel like taking time to argue about it so I followed the other two. I plastered myself against the wall of the house and waited for Fitzgerald to make his exit. Once he was in the open I gestured to him to take the other two and make for the gate in the back wall. I intended to stay here until they made it out of the yard and cover their exit.

I watched the three of them run across the lawn and one by one get out through the gate. I was about to follow when I heard a crash from inside the house. That noise was followed by a shout of anger from Deep Voice.

"Where the Hell is she! I thought you said she was tied down to the bed. You pair of incompetents! Find her! Now!"

No time left. I ran as fast as my gimpy leg permitted and made it to the gate in less than a minute. Once outside the four of us huddled together in the alley and decided on what to do next. The best option was to hightail it down the service alley, head for the parking lot and the two vehicles, and get out of the area. With that objective in mind we set out down the service alley at a rapid pace.

We hadn't gone more than a few steps when a blue SUV turned into the service alley entrance. It was small but it occupied most of the width of the alley and came our way at high speed. The reserves had been brought in, and I had no doubt that the guy in the SUV had orders to stop us no matter what. I reacted instinctively; I raised my weapon and fired. The windshield developed a web of fissures around the bullet hole, and the vehicle slowed to a stop. A second later it was backing down the alley at speed. It stopped at the intersection with the public road; the driver's side door opened and I could make out the head of the security guy crouched behind it. He would have a clear shot at us if we went in that direction.

Fitzgerald was already headed the opposite way down the alley with the other two just ahead of him. I turned to follow but was brought up short when a ping sounded at the top of the wall next to me and a chip of cinder block flew off into space. I looked over at the roof and upper story of the house we had escaped from. An upstairs window had been opened and a man was leaning half-way out aiming a pistol at me. I ducked just as another round plowed into the top of the wall above my head. They knew where we were and where we were headed. Not good at all.

I looked back at the SUV. It was no longer stationary, but had once again come into the alley. It wasn't coming at a fast rate, but it would be on us in seconds. I couldn't make out the driver and thought he must be keeping his head just at the level of the dashboard.

My best shooting stance at academy had been prone; I nailed eight out of ten shots from that position. I got down flat and aimed. My hand was shaking slightly, I don't think it did that when I scored high at the shooting range. That's why they said you should practice until it comes automatically, I suppose. The first round hit a bit left of where I had intended and I took a deep breath before firing again. It looked to be a good shot, but nothing different happened for a few seconds. Then the SUV veered to the right and ran into the wall, where it stopped. The driver's side door opened once more and the security guy tumbled from the driver's seat onto the ground. There was a weapon in his hand and he aimed it in my direction. I adjusted my own aim and started to pull back on the trigger when his head suddenly thumped to the ground. No point in wasting ammo. The odds were still bad.

I kept to the right hand side of the alley and tried to run to catch up with the other three. Two of them were already at the next road intersection. Fitzgerald was crouched against the wall and was looking in my direction. I waved my hand at him to get him moving again. I looked back at the gate we exited and saw a head turned in my direction. A pistol soon appeared and a rapid volley of shots raised dust from the ground just behind me. It was a long shot for a pistol, but I gave it a try anyway. My first shot hit the gate above the man's head causing it to disappear back into the yard. I turned and ran for a few steps before a round whizzed past my right ear and ricocheted off the side of the wall twenty feet ahead of me. I turned and got off two more shots. Now there were two heads showing from the open gateway. Both of them ducked away at the sound of my shots. I glanced in the direction of travel, another hundred feet at least. I saw Fitzgerald motion me to go low and I complied. He fired several times and I heard a sound of pain from behind. When I looked back over my shoulder I didn't see anyone, so I got to my feet and moved at a run. I kept my eyes on Fitzgerald thinking he would let me know if I should duck. It seemed to take forever, but I finally made it to the end of the alley and threw myself down behind Fitzgerald who had taken up a position behind a telephone service module.

I spotted Angelina and Chris nearly half a block away when I looked for them. Fitzgerald got to his feet and pulled me up. He had a question in his eyes, but didn't ask about my wellbeing. Nothing he could do even if I'd been hit. We needed to disappear. We trotted after Angelina and Chris, occasionally looking back. No one appeared to be interested in following us.

It occurred to me that in any other place in the city the noise we had participated in making would have caused any number of calls to 911. In any other place in the city, we would already be hearing the sound of multiple sirens responding to a 'shots fired' communication. The lack of response was deeply troubling. How deep did the infection go?

Every second that followed until we'd made it back to the vehicles was filled with trepidation. All four of us were taking turns looking back over our shoulders and trying to keep to the limited cover afforded by parked vehicles and the occasional shrub. I think we gave out a collective sigh of relief when the shopping plaza and parking lot finally came into view even if the cars were located on the opposite side of the lot. We wove our way through the scattered parked cars, and made way toward the beat up yellow corolla. We all piled into Fitzgerald's sedan, leaving Heather's car for later. Besides being larger, his car could undoubtedly go faster than Heather's beater. Chris and Angelina stayed low in the back seat while Fitzgerald drove and I kept a lookout. We were about to pull out of the lot when I spotted a black SUV followed by a green pickup drive past going slow. Fitzgerald and I ducked low and hoped for the best.

I chanced a look after a few seconds and caught a glimpse of the rear end of the pickup as it turned a corner, probably to circle the block. Fitzgerald put it in gear and headed in the opposite direction. He kept the speed at the posted limit until we were well away from the shopping plaza. He took a left at the first large arterial and headed toward city center. I wasn't convinced that was the best direction to go, but kept my mouth shut for once.

SYLVESTER MARTIN

What a day! It has been an absolute total disaster so far and don't show any signs of getting better. Hammy tells me to go out to the warehouse and wait. He will send the cop who's making trouble and I can do what I need to do. OK, so that sounds like progress. I can do that. I take a few guys including my second best guy after Xavier. I set it up perfect, two guys on lookout, one on the side, and the three of us in the warehouse. Nothing is going to get past us. We will nail the bastard without breaking a sweat. Then we get to the place and a strange pickup is already there. What the Hell? Has the cop got there before us? In a pickup truck? Maybe it's some local yokel who is looking to salvage the machines inside since they're probably worth a couple of bucks. No problem, I can take care of that easy. Trespass is against the law.

So we go inside and look for the guy. Nowhere to be seen. We check the rooms one by one; and figure he's probably hiding in the machine room scared shitless of being found out. The darkest room in the whole damn building, and lots of machines to hide behind. So I tell them to hold up, give the idiot a chance to give himself up and save getting hurt.

I yell "Come on outta there you!"

Surprises the Hell outta me it does! Three bullets ping off the walls on either side of me. What the Hell? So I send two guys down one on each side to flank the guy and put him down. Two more shots this time to the side and one of my guys yells. Who the hell is this guy? Some kind of marine?

Then, finally some good news. "I got her," one of them yells.

Her?

"What the hell you talking about," I yell back.

"It's the girl from before," he yells.

He drags her out into the light from my lantern and I see he's got it right. The same little girl we had locked up before comes back and tries to take me out. Me! What'd I tell you I get no damn respect from nobody! Not even little girls who should be home baking cookies.

"Throw her back in the locked room," I tell them, "and we will talk to her later about what she did."

It was time to get back to business. The cop is on his way and this distraction needs to disappear. Not twenty minutes later everybody is where I tell them to be, and we sit twiddling our thumbs waiting for the cop to show up. I think about calling Hammy to ask what's going on. He should be here by now. Then, all hell breaks loose.

My old man would have cleaned house years ago. At the first sign of people going stupid he would have cut his losses and replaced them with new people. So that's what I get for having a little sympathy. Stupid people doing stupid things making me look stupid! On top of that, Pablo, my next best guy after Xavier, gets burned to a crisp while I'm watching. What am I left with? A bunch of freaking numb-nuts who can't think their way out of a wet paper sack. On top of that yet, I mean way on top of that, if all that wasn't bad enough, on top of that some jerk gets off a lucky shot and puts one in my shoulder!

It was good I sent the girl off before that happened. At least I didn't have to worry about keeping an eye on her. Maybe that pair of idiots can keep her on ice until I get the hole in my shoulder patched up and can get back to business. On the bright side, I think I hit the guy who shot me. I should have stayed put and made sure he was done. That's what my old man would have done. He wouldn't have just turned tail and run. Mickey didn't see any sign of him, but that don't mean a thing. Mickey sure as Hell ain't no bloodhound. His greatest strength is being a meathead. Maybe the guy is still out there, bled out and dead. That would be OK, I could get him cleaned along with Pablo before anybody got curious. Hammy could take care of that. Sometimes I don't trust Hammy so much. He's got his own thing going on. Like that protection racket he runs. Why shouldn't I get a cut of that? I mean I do cover his butt about all the rest of it. He should be paying me a little for protection! Maybe I'll talk to him about that next time I see him. That better be soon Hammy! I don't like being out of the loop. Maybe I'll give McGuire a call and see if he knows anything about where Hammy might be. I don't trust him either, but you gotta start somewhere.

Here's the Doc's place. Not sure I trust him either, but it's not like I can drive up to the ER and get a Band-Aid. They'd ask a bunch of questions. Not that I'd worry about anything happening if they filed a report with the cop shop, but you gotta keep it low key. The Old Man always said that. No matter how big you think you are, he said, there's always somebody who thinks they're bigger and they are going to try and find a way to bring you down unless you keep if low and out of sight. Maybe I should remind Doc about that trouble he had back in Kentucky again. He might have let it slip from his mind. Probably not, who could forget about a bunch of red necks with hunting rifles who still miss their Mama?

Doc is doing everything just right. Hurts like Hell, but I don't want any pain killers. He was sweating pretty hard, but it wasn't even warm in there. He didn't look me in the eyes. I didn't think I needed to mention Kentucky this time. Maybe I'll even give him a little more this month. Just so he knows where his best interests are.

Mickey just got off the phone with Felix. Everything going just right he says. Yeah, I'll bet they are. That Felix better not be messing with the girl, at least not until I'm done with her. I saw the way he looked at her. Can't keep it stowed, that one. Someday he's going to go too far and I'll be looking to fill another vacancy. Xavier used to keep an eye on these guys for me. Damn it! I don't have the time to do all this stuff myself. Where am I going to find another Xavier? Have to look outside. Maybe that kid who I put to work at Apex. He seems to have half a brain. I see the way he looks at Mickey, and Max. He knows they're a couple of losers. Yeah, I'll talk to him today. He should be on the job near the house.

The house. My house. The old man never had a place this good! Look at it, biggest damn thing in the neighborhood! Full security! It's a damn palace! Only thing missing is a pool. I'm going to do that next year, just as soon as that designer guy comes up with something I like. Maybe one shaped like a piano, one of those grand pianos. There can be a hot tub built into the ground where the piano stool would be. OK, OK, back to business. Get inside and talk to the girl. She will tell me where that Chris guy is. Got to wrap up that little loose end. Oh yeah, and her mother! Almost forgot about her. That might be little more difficult to get out of her, but I've got time.

Look at that would you. Both of them standing there in the open door. How many times I got to tell them that somebody keeps watch on the girl one hundred percent of the time?

"Hey, my favorite numbskulls! What's going on boys? The little girl been giving you trouble?"

"No Boss," said Felix, "she's no trouble at all. Not even a peep outta her, and she's bundled up nice and tight."

"Why isn't one of you in there with her? Do you remember my telling you that one of you needs to watch her all the time?"

"Felix and me," Max said, "thought you meant until she was tied up and secure. Where's she going to go when she's tied to the bed posts? She ain't no Houdini."

"You sure as Hell better be right about that! Anything goes wrong and you two can count the minutes left until I give you a retirement party! Now, go get her!"

"Who, me?" That was the short one, Felix.

"No genius, your taller twin idiot, Max. You can go get me a glass of wine."

"Yes, Boss." They answered in unison.

"Rocco, you got your head on straight yet? What did the Doc say?"

"He said I should take it slow for a day or two and if I start feeling sleepy all the time I should come back and see him."

"Well," I said, "if you ain't feeling sleepy now, you and Mickey can go get that big brown tarp from the storeroom. Spread it out right here in the living room and put one of those cheap metal folding chairs on top in the middle."

"Sure Boss. We gonna have a little party here with the girl?"

"That's the plan Rocco. I might even let you have a turn if you feel up to it."

"Sure I do! Just say what and when!"

"Jeeze, you don't need to start drooling Rocco. Let's just see how it goes. Maybe she'll come to her senses fast."

"Huh! Hope not."

"Boss!" the shout came from the left hallway, the formal one where all the expensive prints were hung on the walls. "The door got locked somehow! Do you want us to break it down?"

They were both standing there with dumb looks on their faces when I walked back to the bedroom door.

"Why is it locked you idiot. Did you push the button last time you left the room?"

"No way! I got more sense than that! Don't I Felix?"

Felix looked at him like he was telling a joke. Maybe there was some hope for Felix after all.

I reached up to the lintel over the door and felt around for the allen wrench that was supposed to be there. All I found was dust.

"Where did it go?" I looked at both of them expecting one of them to answer.

"Where did what go, Boss?"

"The little L-shaped tool that's supposed to be up there, that's what!"

"Oh, that." Max looked the other way and I knew he had done something else stupid. "I thought it was put up there by mistake. I put it into the little tool box on the shelf of the closet over there." He pointed at the hallway closet where you were supposed to put your coats and hats.

"Do you think you can go get it?" It was getting really hard to keep my voice under control. I didn't want to waste it all shouting at these dumb turds. The girl wouldn't have any respect for me if I did that.

"Sure Boss, just a second."

I grabbed the allen wrench out of his hand when he came back and inserted it into the little hole on the face of the knob. I could feel it settle into place, and with a click the lock released. I gave them the look that said they were lacking brains and turned the knob. The door gave way a little and then didn't move any farther into the room.

"What the Hell?"

I pushed harder, and the door pushed back. Something was in the way.

"Go try the door from the other hallway," I told Felix.

A minute later he said, "This one is the same, Boss. Something is in the way."

"You stay there," I shouted, "and you, Max, you get this door open now!"

It gave way with a splintering crash the second time Max kicked at it. The top hinge failed and what was left of the door fell into the room and came to rest on the foot of the bed. The empty bed. There were ropes tied to the four bed posts but they weren't attached to anything. The pillow had a head-shaped dent in it.

"Felix," I yelled, "get over here now!"

All four of them were standing in front of me in the hallway, but my attention was focused on the two so-called guards.

"Do you remember what I was saying about your retirement party?"

They both shuffled their feet and looked uncomfortable. One of them, Felix, put his hands together to cover his balls. He had the right idea.

"Find her. If you have even a little bit of hope you might get out of this without losing your balls, find her! Now!"

They all scurried off to look in nooks and crannies, and I went back to the living room and sat down on the folding metal chair in the middle of the tarp. For a quarter buck I would book a flight to Rio, rent a beach shack and go out every day and look for sea shells. What in the Hell did I ever do to deserve this pack of mongrels? Not even a hour goes by without some damn disaster happening. How did that girl untie herself and get away? It just didn't make any sense. Max and Felix might be idiots, but they sure as Hell knew how to tie square knots. She must have had help. No other way, somebody came into this house...My House!...and took her away! All this security, and somebody came in and took her away from under their noses. I got up to look at the alarm panel. Everything was turned off. What a bunch of absolute block-headed, numbskull idiots. Every damn one of them should have been put out on the curb as soon as they were born!

There was a shout from upstairs, and I heard a shot. Maybe there was hope for at least one of them.

SINCLAIR

We were making good time into the center of town. I still wasn't certain we wanted to be going in that direction, but had to admit that Fitzgerald's argument that the best place to hide was under their noses might have something going for it. I turned to look back at the rear seat. The two of them had their eyes closed and seemed to be sleeping. Chris had his arm around Angelina's shoulder and she had her head resting on his chest. The looked like a couple of kids just out of high school. Which they were, come to think of it. I don't know if I'd have been able to come through the last few days with the same spunk, when I was their age. Just then Angelina opened her eyes and saw me looking at her. She gave me a little smile and closed her eyes again. That made me feel pretty good about the world, but then I remembered how things might go for the next few days and I felt pretty crappy about it, instead.

We had stopped to trade Fitzgerald's sedan for his patrol car, opting for the protective camouflage it offered, and for the armaments in the trunk under lock and key. I was making a list of people in the department I had doubts about, and it was getting pretty long. Of the hundred fifty or so members of the department I had at least a partial profile on most of them that I had developed over the past two years. It's almost impossible to spend any time as an officer and not have a few negatives in your file. That's just the way it is, no one likes to get a ticket, be arrested, or have an unpleasant interaction with a cop. Any cop doing his or her job will have a handful of complaints regardless of whether or not they are justified. My attempt at sorting out the bad apples had more to do with general tendencies, especially secretiveness or living above their pay scale. I had no significant negatives about maybe half the people in the department, including civilians—no one said the bad guys employed by the department had to be cops. That didn't mean they were in the clear, only that I had found no red flags.

On the other hand, there were a few who I was nearly certain had connections with one or the other of the local crime bosses. Sylvester Martin was not the only one of those, merely the one who had become most prominent, and that had come to light only in the past week or so. Since I hadn't even known his name until then, it was clear he had been pretty good at keeping a low personal profile. I could imagine that he was very anxious to limit his exposure, and that our current difficulties arose from that desire. The connections between Martin and the department were at best circumstantial, except in the case of Harmon. That relationship was now crystal clear. By extension, McGuire, Siegel, Murphy and maybe Hayes carried some taint. Going further, I could name maybe eight or nine others who had close relationships with those five people. Unfortunately, it wasn't the people I had on the list that might be trouble in the immediate future, we could keep clear of them, but the people I didn't know about yet were wild cards. We wouldn't see them coming until it was too late.

All things considered, we probably needed to go to deep cover and not risk the kids with further exposure. On the other hand, I and Fitzgerald now, needed to be out and about working towards discovering the bad guys. We also had to stay in contact with the kids if we were going to ensure no one could stumble onto them. As much as I hated to involve her in anything dangerous, my thoughts kept returning to Heather. Her position as an EMT gave her just the sort of cover that would let her serve as a connection between the kids and us. I probably should stop thinking of them as kids. They had proven themselves tough and resilient, but they simply weren't trained to deal with armed and dangerous criminals. I wouldn't let them be put in danger again.

We met for a meal at a crowded restaurant near Heather's duty station. It was the kind of place where chest-high partitions separated clusters of tables. Even at this hour, too late for lunch and too early for dinner, the place was packed. They were having an all-you-can eat spaghetti special. I opted for a club sandwich and coffee. The other four went the Italian route.

When I told Heather about what we had in mind she was quiet for a long time.

"I don't have any problem at all putting Angelina and Chris up at my house. I do have a problem with you two trying to handle Martin and his bunch by yourselves. Something is going to go wrong, Guy. I don't want to lose you."

"Heather, believe me, I'm not going to take any chances. If I feel like we are getting in too deep, Fitzgerald and I will bail immediately. Right, Officer Fitzgerald?"

"Absolutely! I don't have any intention of missing my retirement party several decades down the road."

We split up after eating: Angelina and Chris went with Heather; while Fitzgerald and I returned to his patrol car. I waved goodbye to Heather as she pulled out of the parking space in the loaner she'd borrowed from a friend. She still had a big frown on her face. I don't think I had succeeded in convincing her about anything.

"Officer Fitzgerald," I said as he guided the patrol car toward the station, "I haven't asked you before, but how do you feel about your colleagues? Are there any of them who stand out as clearly on the take or alternatively absolutely straight?"

"I've wondered why you didn't ask me that question for quite a while. I thought it might be because you didn't quite trust me to give you an honest answer. Not that I blame you, in your position I wouldn't trust anyone either. But since you have asked, I think I owe you an answer. Almost as soon as I joined the department I was approached by Sgt. McGuire, and he asked some interesting questions. Who my family were. Who paid for my college. How big my college loan was. He never came right out and asked me if I wanted to make some money on the side, but that's the direction I thought he was going. Then, when I had my first annual review, instead of Sgt. McGuire doing it, Lt. Siegel went over it with me. He asked how I liked the job. I answered I liked it very much, of course. Then he said how he understood that pay for beginning officers was nowhere near a living wage, and he asked how I was getting along financially. I told him I was doing OK, no problems, but he insisted that I should come see him if it ever became an issue for me. Again, nothing direct, but you get the message unless you are totally naïve."

"How about other officers at or just above your pay scale? Any interesting conversations?"

"I suppose," he began, "that I should keep my mouth shut. People don't take it kindly when you work right beside them and still make allegations about questionable behavior. Especially since I don't have anything certain. It's all circumstantial and I could have misunderstood things."

"I get all that, Fitzgerald. I'm not asking you to file a complaint against anyone, just give me your thoughts and I promise I won't do anything unless I find confirming information. Fair enough?"

"Yeah, I guess. So, maybe I have some doubts about Sprague and Heilmann. Nothing definite, you understand. Just a feeling about some comments and rumors. Sprague was bragging about his big cabin cruiser, and I wondered how a guy with only five years on duty could afford that. Heilmann is a different thing. He keeps a bottle in his locker, I saw it once. Expensive stuff, imported. Maybe it was just a gift from a happy motorist, I don't know about that. Might not mean anything at all, but I heard a couple of other guys talking about a party he threw. It was at the stripper club downtown, and he apparently rented the whole place to throw the party. Including the pole dancers."

"OK, good. I appreciate the information. To be forthright with you, both of those officers were on my list of candidates for attention. What you say adds to an already substantial list of questionable behavior on both their parts. Please don't behave differently towards them. That might put them on notice that they should try and hide their activities and make getting enough evidence for prosecution more difficult than it is already."

"No problem, Detective, I don't hang out with either one of them."

"Anyone else? I asked."

"No, nothing I feel comfortable talking about regarding officers. But, I wonder about Sally the day shift radio operator. There were a couple of times when I called in for information, and never got a response. Then there was the time when I called for backup at a burglary scene, and had to repeat the request. Then, Sgt. McGuire came on and told me to stand down. When I asked him about it later, he told me that I was about to compromise one of his informants, and that he would "take care" of the burglary suspect.

So, what are we going to do now? I mean we have to do something about Martin and his gang. I don't know how good a look they got of me, but surely they must know who you are by now."

"I didn't flash a badge at anyone, so maybe there is still a little doubt in Martin's mind. I introduced myself as a business partner to Harmon. Of course, having shot the guy won't land me on his Christmas card list."

"And when Martin finds out that Harmon is dead, and you were with him at the time he died?"

"Yes, that will definitely complicate matters. It all depends on how often he gets reports from his contacts in the Department. It might be worth taking a chance to feel things out by checking in. We should go in separately; I don't want you to get infected by being near me. Just the fact that I asked for you specifically for that duty at Figueroa's trailer might already be too much of a connection."

Fitzgerald dropped me a couple of blocks away from the station house, and I took my time walking the remaining distance. I wanted him to be inside for some time before I showed up.

I went in through the side door and checked off my name on the duty log. I immediately picked up on a tension in the air. People hurried by apparently intent upon some essential task. The normal low buzz that permeated the place during normal duty hours was gone, replaced by short bursts of talking alternating with an eerie silence. It was enough to raise the hair on the back of my neck.

The first face that I focused on was Sgt. Hayes. He seemed shocked to see me.

"Detective Sinclair! You're here!"

"Sure, where else would I be during daylight hours?"

"No, I mean, I'm sorry about Detective Harmon. It's tough to lose a partner any time, but in a traffic accident? That's got to be difficult to process. All the times he faced armed criminals, and in the end it's a concrete bridge abutment. What was he doing way out there anyway?" "What did the Highway Patrol report say?"

"Not much, but I only got a glance at it before Capt. Spear put it away under wraps. That was plenty strange all by itself."

"Makes you wonder if you should be asking questions about it, doesn't it?"

"Well, uh, maybe so. You don't know anything, then?"

"Not that I can talk about, Hayes. Have a good day."

I thought that I could have handled that a lot better. What I didn't say would be around the station in a matter of minutes. I could expect suspicious glances from just about everyone now. Next up was Gloria, the civilian file clerk.

"Detective Sinclair," she gushed, "we are all so very sorry about what happened to Detective Harmon. We've already started taking up a collection for flowers, and I just got off the phone with Anderson at the Silver Badge Tavern. He promised to give us the big back room for the wake any time we needed it. When do you think I should schedule it? We'll need to let everyone know ahead of time so they won't go and make other plans. Oh, and do you know the address or phone number for his Ex? She would certainly want to know, don't you think? I mean, even if she divorced him five years ago, she must still have some feelings about him. They were married after all. Oh my, I shouldn't be bothering you with all of this, you must be all broken up yourself. And, look, you even have a bandage on your head. Oh my, how did that happen? Was it the same time that Detective Harmon was hurt? Oh, I never thought that you might have been hurt, too. I really need some help from you though. I mean ever since Capt. Murphy disappeared, and right after that Lt. Siegel called in with an emergency leave request, it has been totally chaotic around here. The only one with enough seniority to make decisions is that Sgt. McGuire, and you know how he can be. I am so glad you are here to take charge of things. Oh my, I just remembered, I have to go to Records and update the duty roster for today. Not enough people to cover everything, we have all had to double up a little bit for two whole days now. I'll talk to you later Detective Sinclair. It is so good to see you in one piece! Ha-ha, I mean not badly injured."

I watched her scurry off in the direction of the elevator. I had to wonder how long it would have taken to get that deep an update talking to the beat cops.

My desk was unaccountably clear of paperwork. The usual stacks of reports to review and OK were nowhere to be seen. All the little post-it notes I had stuck on nearly every vertical surface were all gone. It was like I didn't exist. The desk chair was even at a different height, and I felt like I was scraping the floor with my butt. It was set for someone with shorter legs than mine, say someone five-foot-seven or so. I looked around the room for any sign of McGuire. There he was, just next to the pillar that held up the roof. Even as I caught sight of him, he glanced in my direction; and then quickly looked away and stepped back behind the pillar. That, I thought, was a guilty reaction if I ever saw one.

I circled the room in a direction that would bring me up behind the pillar where McGuire was hiding. I covered the last ten feet as quietly as I could. That seemed an unnecessary precaution because he was concentrating on examining the vicinity of my desk while keeping everything except his head behind the pillar.

"Sgt. McGuire," I said, more loudly than necessary considering I was less than two feet away, "how are you today?"

The contents of the coffer cup he was holding wound up coating the back of Officer Fleming, who in turn reacted with comical exaggeration by tripping over the edge of a carpet-saver plastic sheet under the desk just in front of him.

It occurred to me that McGuire most likely did not expect to see me upright and walking today. Not after he waved goodbye when I drove off with Harmon. The news about Harmon must have come as quite the shock to him. I was not surprised when he turned toward me with a look in his eyes that spoke of deep-seated hatred. I could imagine a bunch of plans suddenly going up in smoke, and dollars that would have gone into his bank account fluttering away on the breeze. Until the time came when I could put him under arrest he was one I would not like to have behind me.

"So, you haven't answered my question McGuire. How the Hell are you today? Heard of any vacancies in the department lately? Any news from your friends on Belmont Avenue?"

McGuire always had a lightly complexioned face, easy to redden with anger, or less often in embarrassment. I'd never seen him go pale before. He suddenly looked like he hadn't seen the sun in decades. Little beads of sweat broke out across his forehead.

"My goodness McGuire, you look like you've come down with something all of a sudden. Maybe you ought to go get it checked out at urgent care. You need to take care of yourself; you never know when you'll be called to testify about one thing or another."

He said something then, but I couldn't quite make out the words. I thought it might have started with the word 'go' and ended with the word 'yourself". I didn't ask him to repeat himself; he seemed to be in a hurry to get out of the building.

"Officer Fleming," I said, "nice to see you. Hope that coffee doesn't stain. I've heard that club soda will take the stain out right away. You need to keep it neat, Son. We have to make a good impression on the public.

"I never did like those pieces of plastic you put under a desk. Always catching a wheel when you try to glide around in your chair, you know?"

I looked around the room. Everyone had gone silent. You could hear a traffic ticket drop. I gave an all-inclusive nod and went back to my desk. It only took five minutes before my phone buzzed, it was the intercom line.

"Sinclair," I answered.

"Detective Sinclair, good of you to come to work today. Might I have the pleasure of your company for a few minutes?"

"Yes Sir, be happy to oblige. I'll be over directly."

A meeting with Capt. Spear was never a pleasant undertaking, and I doubted things would change anytime in the near future.

He told me to take the chair in front of his desk, and then stared at me for an eternity or two.

"Detective Sinclair, I've been hearing some disturbing things lately. When I gave you the task of rooting out criminal elements in the department, I did not mean that you should feel free to terminate their services is quite so final a manner."

"No Sir, I do realize that. It was an unfortunate combination of my lacking alternatives and a rapidly shrinking window of opportunity. I would have much preferred to have him up on charges, Sir."

He was silent for a few moments and I could see that he was engaged in an internal argument. Eventually one side won, and he looked directly into my eyes.

"Sinclair, I need to give you some information I would just as soon keep to myself. I see now that will be impossible. There are things you need to know. I hope that by knowing them, you will not see me in a substantially less favorable light.

"I grew up not far from here. My family was never one to think much of the high society crowd. However, they were determined to see that I made it to a higher level of attainment than they could ever hope to achieve. Both my mother and father worked two jobs and gave up all the things they might have had so that I could go to the best schools. It nearly broke their hearts when I refused to fill out the Ivy League applications. So much blood and tears gone to waste, they thought.

I never wanted their school choices or their ambitions for me. The neighborhood where I grew up seemed just fine to me. I didn't want to leave all my friends and go to an Ivy League school to become a lawyer or a chief operating officer. It was my best buddy who convinced me that some schooling might be what I needed. He said that I should aim a little higher than the goal his family intended for his future. I thought about where he was headed and decided that future was something I had to avoid at all cost. So I listened to him and made a deal with my parents. I'd get a degree, but then I would come home and work for the benefit of my neighborhood. Being a policeman was entirely my idea. My parents and my best friend thought I was insane when I told them what I wanted to do. Especially my best friend. The way he saw it, my becoming a cop would put an end to our friendship.

"He was right, of course, how could I maintain any ethical standards and still call the local gang boss my friend. Oh, at the beginning he was no more than a petty crook, but he was clever and he was daring. He did things in ways that no one ever tried before. Sometimes you had to look very hard to see what was illegal about what he was doing. Not that I tried to do that very often. I left him alone, and when something came across my desk that seemed to carry his signature, I'd either let it drop or hand it off to someone else. Over the years he became more important, and so did I. It has been more and more difficult these past few years to avoid someone finding out about my background and who my friends were growing up.

"The most difficult time was about five years ago. That's when the inevitable happened and someone more dangerous and more ambitious came along. My friend disappeared. He must have known something was going to happen. The very next day I got a special delivery letter at my home address. It was from him. In it, he wrote about things I had no idea about. I learned the name of the woman who he had loved and who had died in childbirth. About the boy who had been growing up in paid foster care in another state. He wanted me to look after the boy. See to his education. That letter begged me to make sure he never got into the same trouble that eventually killed his father. He'd even gone so far as to have the boy's name changed. The boy would not continue the line Gonzalez. Instead, he would start the line Fitzgerald.

"I had hoped that young Fitzgerald would benefit from your supervision and guidance. I couldn't do it. There would be too many questions to answer. It was working out just as I had planned, but then in some way I do not understand, Fitzgerald found out who his father had been and how he had died. Now I am very worried Detective Sinclair, that he will do something to revenge his father's death. That cannot go well no matter what happens. He will either be guilty of murder or will himself be killed.

"I don't have much time left Sinclair. Everything is coming down around me and sooner rather than later all the lies I've told and the protection I've given will come to light. I will be powerless to fulfill my best friend's plea to protect his son. It is not easy for me to beg Detective, but I am. Please take care of the boy."

I left Capt. Spear without saying another word. He was worried that his world was coming apart, but he had done a good job of tearing mine to shreds as well. Spear had been sort of a hero to me. The pinnacle of ethics and honesty. The man who would singlehandedly try to put to right all that was wrong with the Silver Spring Police Department. Well, maybe with my help that is. What a joke! My hero, best buddy of a master criminal! I started to head back to my desk, but stopped before I opened the door to the duty room. I turned around and headed for the exit. The Silver Badge was the place I really wanted to go. I needed a drink, maybe more than one. Mostly, I needed to come to terms with my new outlook on the world.

FITZGERALD

I found that I could not stand still and simply wait for the forensic team to happen upon the safe and what it might be hiding. What Sinclair had said made it obvious that something important was in there. I was itching to find out what. They looked like they would be busy out in the weeds for some time yet, and I could snoop a bit without being discovered. If it was something important for evidence, I'd put it back and make sure the team found it.

I was surprised when the door to the safe opened without any effort, and even more surprised when I saw that it was empty. What was Sinclair talking about? Then I saw the drag marks in the carpet, along a line that the safe had been moved away from its location against the wall. It wasn't as heavy as it looked and came away from the wall easily, dragging the carpet with it exposing the plywood floor beneath. The plywood cutout came up without any problem and there was enough light through the windows to illuminate the metal box sitting on the steel I-beam.

I put on gloves and opened the box. It wasn't even locked. Not that the lock would keep out anyone with a pocket knife. Sitting on top was a bundle of hundred-dollar bills. Lots of them. Below the money was a folded letter that sat atop a pile of notebooks. I unfolded the letter and read the few lines of hand printed text. No wonder Sinclair was anxious. If this letter was really indicative of the contents of the notebooks, things could be busted wide open.

I checked on the crew once again. They hadn't moved more than a foot or two from their starting place. I had lots of time to kill. I returned to the metal box and took out the three notebooks. There were obvious differences in age. One was stained and beat up with ragged edges on both cover and back. It was labeled "Volume I". The second had a used, but cared for look and a slightly neater hand had labeled it "Volume II". "Volume III" was less than half-filled with notes. The last entry date was a few days previously. I thumbed through the first book and realized that the writer had serious issues with penmanship. I fought to understand one sentence and found three spelling errors, seat of the pants grammar usage, and scribbles for words. Maybe this wouldn't be so much help after all.

Still, .there was something magnetic about the dairies of a dead man that made me sit there and turn the pages. Gradually I got the hang of it. If you imagined that phonetic spelling and streetwise word usage were actually English, the sentences began to make sense. Even so, Volume I was nearly nothing more than a continuous bitch and moan about growing up short and stupid, and without a friend to your name. That and lots of veiled references to what was going on at home. Not a pretty picture, I had no trouble seeing how Frederick had turned into the little punk hood, who died out in the weeds. Dad and Mom put him there just as sure as if they had pulled the trigger.

I looked at Volume II next, leaving Volume III for last. I opened it to about the middle and saw that the page had a dated entry: May 2, 2010. I realized then that Volume I had no dates at all. I had no idea what period of time it covered. Only that in one year there had been a "crappy Thanksgiving" followed by a "Dad is drunk again" Christmas. Volume II was written in a much neater hand, but one that continued to lack evidence of education. There were more words with more than two syllables, and the spelling was marginally better, but all in all, you had no trouble identifying the writer of Volume II as the author of Volume I.

The entry on that page gave details of a deal between the author and someone called Dylan. Dylan was going to act as a "subcontractor" and manage the distribution of "product" in ten individually named neighborhoods. Dylan was going to earn one-half of ten percent of the "net profit". Strange math there. Why not just say five percent? Maybe the "net profit" was going to be shared by someone else. I couldn't get my head around the weird way of calculation. It was as if five percent was too hard to figure.

The following pages had dated entries with similar content. I gradually came to realize that the writer had a very wide-spread network of associates, he invariably called them subcontractors, and that he was earning substantial sums from those various business interests. That fact was evident from the interspersed entries relating especially pricey purchases. There were thirty-five pages of similar content, and I glanced at each one as I counted them, but didn't want to take time to read them all. I moved on to Volume III

The first entry was dated July 27, 2011. It was written in a hurried hand and words angled across lines on the page. "Stuff is going to happen tomorrow. Xavier wants to take care of Kurt once and for all. I have to set a meet with Kurt. He won't know what is coming."

"July 28, 2011 Its done. Xavier stabbed him in his house. Told me to take care of the body and left. I checked to make sure and found out he is still alive. I'm no killer, can't finish it. I'll take him to the Hidey Hole. If he pulls through, that's OK. If he don't it's not my fault."

"July 29, 2011 Xavier asked about body. Told him I dumped it in the bay. Not sure he believed me."

"Later Xavier back again. He didn't believe me. Used the .38. He made me do it. Not my fault. Now what?"

"July 30, 2011 SM asked about Xavier. Shouldn't have left the body there. That idiot Felix found him and tells SM that the Doc couldn't save him so they put Xavier in a dumpster near his house. I saw that SM had ideas about me. I told him about the club and how Angie and CC might have gotten revenge. Don't think he believed me. Tells me he will make a plan."

"July 31, 2011 Went with SM to Angie's house. Took them both to the place by the Bay. SM stayed to talk to them but I got out of there fast. Need to give SM somebody else."

"Later Going to CC's place. Don't want to do it. Its him or me and I have to."

"August 2, 2011 Its done. Hope it works. I'll stay here until things settle down."

After that there was nothing but blank pages. Except for a scrap of paper with a sketch inside the back cover. I have no idea what it is supposed to show, except it is a map of some sort. I understand that Sinclair wants to leave the box for the forensic team to discover. That's how it can be preserved as un-doctored evidence. I get that, but what if there is something that will identify SM or where the girl Angie might be, or evidence for or against this CC person? I think he is wrong to leave it here. I'm going to take the notebooks with me and go someplace to read them through all the way.

Tired. That's what I am: tired and angry and sad. Why did I have to find out this way? Capt. Spear, my very own foster-father, had to know all about it! He should have told me long ago. Like when he told me my father had been killed in an 'accident'. That would have changed everything if he had told me then. Maybe that's why he didn't. He had his plans for me and I blindly went along with him. It isn't too late to sort things out, but I'll need to think it through. For now I'll play along and do what I'm supposed to do. The best chance I'll have to make things work out the right way will be if I use Sinclair. Ride his coat-tails until I can find a way to do what I have to. If anyone is going to get a lead on SM, has to stand for Sylvester Martin I think, it will be Sinclair. If nothing else he's a damn good detective.

I have to do something about Kurt. I can't just leave him to die. Maybe that has happened already, but at the very least I have to find out. No sign of the/ forensic team. The inside of the trailer is spotless. I already told them to pay attention to the box of stuff in the closet and the safe. I am glad I closed the safe door and spun the dial. It'll take them time to get it open again and find the box with the letter and cash. They will wonder about what the letter means, but maybe I can find a way to get the notebooks back to them without making myself look dirty. Of course, if Sinclair reads their report he will know that someone moved the box from where it was and put into the safe. I don't know how I'm going to fix that. Maybe he won't notice. Nah, I'm just kidding myself; sure he will.

I had time while I drove back to Figueroa's trailer property to try and come up with a plan to keep Sinclair in the dark about those things I really don't want him to know. As I turned off the pavement and crossed the muddy ditch nothing had come to mind on that score. Maybe not the most important thing to worry about. After I've done what I have to, he may have a lot of reasons to think badly about me and removing evidence will be the least of them.

There was nowhere in the single-wide that was Frederick's second home to hide anything as large as a body. If Kurt was around here it would have to be in a place no one has looked at yet. I scanned the property giving each of the three derelict trailers attention. There was not much left of any of them. Something strange about the one in the middle though. I could see the weeds underneath the two on each side but the one in the middle had a sheet of something extending down to ground level. What is that all about?

I walked over to the pile of scrap on wheels, or what was left of wheels, and circumnavigated its shredded shell. Every wall had big holes and entire sections of sheet metal were down and crumpled in the weeds next to the frame. Maybe I had only seen one of those downed walls from a distance and thought it out of place. What was left of the flooring looked rotted, but I took the chance and climbed up onto the floor. I could see myself crashing though the rotted composition board and doing a lot of damage to my body. It made me nervous and I was about to leave, but something peculiar had been done to the floor in what might have been the trailer's living room. The Sun was halfway risen and shadows were lengthened to my left. That's what it was. The part of the floor I was looking at had a raised edge and enough elevation to cast a shadow. As I moved in that direction it became clear that the floor in that place had a different look than the floor everywhere else. When I stepped on it a metallic echo sounded from below my feet. You only heard that sort of sound when there was empty space enclosed by solid walls. Like if you pounded on the top of a closed garbage bin.

A small piece of wood seemed out of place where it rested near the edge of the metal sheet plating. Totally out of place, it was a jagged piece of tree trunk with the bark still intact. The nearest tree was thirty feet away. I walked over and tried to move it with my foot, but it was tied down in some way. I stooped down to get a better look and discovered a recess in the sheet metal below the log. There was enough room under the wood to reach in and pull up on what looked like some sort of opening device. When I did that the metal under my feet tried to rise but my weight held it down. When I moved off the metal sheet it rose slowly as if controlled by hydraulics or maybe a spring. A waft of sour air came up from the opening. The sunlight illuminated the interior of a metal walled compartment about as wide as the trailer and equally as long. It was only about three feet deep. Just deep enough to be resting on the ground. A short metal-rung ladder hung from the lip of the opening and a cot or bed of sorts was against the opposite wall. There was a form on the cot that looked like a body covered with a blanket. That was where the smell originated, and I began to fear the worst.

I didn't recognize the face when I lifted the blanket, but then I had never even seen a picture of Kurt so how would I know if it was him or not? His eyes were closed and his hair was a tangled mess. The shirt was mostly open over his chest and I could see where an attempt had been made to dress a wound in the upper left side of his abdomen. As I watched and wondered what I should do, the chest rose ever so slightly, and I heard the wheezing intake of air. I had no idea how, but he was still alive.

I ran back to my vehicle and collected the bottle of water from the dashboard holder and the first aid kit from under the driver's side of the seat. I wondered how much I remembered of that emergency response training every cadet had to endure. So far, my job as a cop hadn't involved rendering first aid, but I could at least try and keep him alive.

He seemed almost comatose when I tried to rouse him. His eyes opened slightly when I put the bottle to his mouth, and I could see he attempted to swallow the liquid that dribbled into his mouth. Not too much, didn't want him downing. The air was almost breathable by then, and the sour smell had mostly dissipated. A weak breeze ruffled his hair, and he tried to turn his head in the direction of the breeze, still without opening his eyes fully.

I pulled the blood-soaked bandage away slowly, but his body squirmed as it resisted my pull. The blood had dried against his skin and plastered the bandage down. I tried to wet the edges of the bandage with a squirt of peroxide, and the skin around the bandage puckered as if chilled by an ice cube. He still made no sound except the slightly stronger wheezing breaths. Finally the old bandage came away exposing a puncture wound that must have gone into his lung at the very least. Confirming my thought his next inhale caused a few small bubbles to rise from the wound. The liquid was a dirty looking reddish brown. I wondered if there was an infection. After I taped a clean dressing over the wound, I wondered what to do. I should call for emergency response, but did I really want to bring that much attention to bear? Did I want to have to answer a bunch of possibly difficult questions? One thing was certain, if I did call for an ambulance I would have to put my plans on hold for a time. Maybe permanently. Looking down on the man, I had serious doubts that he would last much longer if I didn't get him some professional care. Letting him die when I could do something was not an option. It would take an emergency call out maybe an hour to find this place; I knew that from personal experience. That settled it.

I pulled my car up to the end of the trailer frame and opened the back door. When I lifted him off the cot I could feel wetness on my arms and a smell rose that was a combination of urine and feces. I came close to gagging. I should have put some of that eucalypti's salve under my nose like they said to do when you had to handle a body. Fortunately, he was light enough to lift high and lay on the metal floor above the opening. From there I moved him to the edge of the trailer, got down on the ground and carried him to the car. I wished that I had a blanket or something to put down first, but the one that had covered him was as rank as his clothes and would be no improvement. Before heading out, I had a thought that I should look in the compartment one more time. Maybe something there could be used as I carried my plan forward. There was nothing under the cot except a pool of foul smelling liquid. The walls were bare I thought, but as I turned to climb the ladder I caught a glimpse of something on a chain and swinging in the weak breeze that swirled around the interior of the compartment. I took it down, stared at it with a glimmer of recognition of something from long past, and put it in my pocket..

The drive to the county hospital ER took about twenty minutes. Much faster than if I had waited for an ambulance. At least that had been a good decision. I stuck my head in the sliding doors and yelled until a guy in hospital whites came over to see what was going on. One look in the back seat and he ran back to collect some help and a gurney. They didn't look back at me as they wheeled him into the ER doorway, and I took the opportunity to get back in the car and drive away. With any luck no one had noticed the registration number.

I went directly to a self-serve car wash and hosed the vehicle down, including the back seat. Probably would ruin the resale value, but that smell had to go. Then I went home and gave myself a thorough wash down too.

The next two days were a successive series of near disasters. Sinclair seemed intent upon getting himself killed one way or the other. Of course, the same could be said for that Chris Clark fellow. One or the other of them needed saving on a regular basis. I was nearly distracted from my purpose when Sinclair and I had to try rescuing Clark and the girl from under Sylvester's nose. That could have gone bad fast, but Sinclair didn't mind using his gun when necessary. I was happy that he was the one doing the dirty work. I wanted to keep my involvement as quiet as possible until the time came to act.

During the night after the rescue, I sat in the chair in front of the TV. It gave out a drone of indeterminate noise that occasionally included music. I couldn't taste the beer after the first sip so I put it down and closed my eyes. I hadn't thought about my father in years. After he died and Spear took me under his care, he had faded from memory with surprising ease. Of course, I had not seen him very often. He would show up maybe once or twice a year, usually on a holiday. He would always bring a present of some sort. Most of the time they were things I had no interest in. Like the ant farm and the set of paints. I remembered asking him once to bring a set of soldier figures the next time he came. What I got was a grow-it-yourself vegetable kit. Mostly I was just happy to see him. The other boys at the boarding school went home for holidays and breaks between semesters. Not me, the only time my father took me away from the place was to go to the park just down the road for a picnic and game of catch.

My foster-father Spear told me he died in an accident. It was a week after my nineteenth birthday, and the year after my graduation from high school. All the other boys left the place on their eighteenth birthday or shortly thereafter. Not me, I had to stay there and I felt like they thought of me as a case of delayed development. I took correspondence courses during that final year, but longed to get out and experience the real world for a change. When Uncle Spear finally came to claim me, I expected to finally be set free and put on my own. He had other plans.

First the military academy for two years and then the police academy until I graduated at an age required for employment as a police officer. It went like clockwork.

I guess I liked it well enough. The course work was a lot more interesting than at the boarding school and I felt as though I could see an end to it. A time when I could be out and on my own. That was not something I was even minimally prepared for, however. Just the experience of being in mixed company was a novelty. I'd grown up in the presence of males only, I never met a girl until the police academy, and then they had better things to do than spend time with a socially inept male. I had my first date a year after I joined the Silver Spring Police Department. She was the hostess at a restaurant down the block, and I thought she was probably the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Probably, at the time, that was true. Our relationship didn't last long. She liked to have several friends, as she called them, and I fell short of her minimum requirements. I hadn't expected rejection, and found I didn't want to repeat the experience. I concentrated on being the best cop in the department instead.

I would still be trying to be the best cop of the beat if it hadn't been for reading Frederick's dairies. Almost too much to assimilate just because of the detailed reporting on crime and criminals. But then came the entries from 2010. I could recite some of them by heart, I had read them so many times.

"June 16, 2010 Finally—Xavier and I had a beer together. I think he is getting to respect me more. He told me a little about the time when SM took over. He didn't want to tell me everything. I could tell he was holding back something important. I should find out what."

"August 1, 2010 Xavier and I got loaded last night. He started talking and wouldn't stop. Everybody thinks he did the old boss, but now I know that ain't true. Not sure who did him."

"October 12, 2010 I told him it was my birthday so Xavier brought over some coke to the apartment. Never had any before, don't think I like it. Xavier likes it a lot. Got to talking again after some coke and bourbon. SM did Philippe!!! And Xavier watched! SM told Xavier to get rid of the body, but when he checked Philippe was still breathing. Xavier didn't know what to do, said he always liked Philippe and Philippe had always treated him good. So he took him home and put him to bed. Then he goes out and finds some homeless guy in a cardboard box. The guy is the right size he thinks and is half-dead anyway, so he puts a knife in him, stuffs him in the trunk of that Camero we saw that day the dog was killed, took it out to the country soaked it with gas and set it on fire. Don't know what happened to Philippe after that never saw him again."

"October 13, 2010 I think Xavier remembers last night. He gave me a long look. I didn't like it"

"November 1, 2010 Xavier's been acting strange for weeks. Looks at me when he thinks I don't see. Have to do something- get some insurance. I went to his apartment to have a look around while he was on business for SM. Found the photo of him and Philippe- arms around each other's shoulders and smiling. Philippe has a fancy medallion on a chain around his neck and is holding it up like he won a prize. Didn't know what it meant – still don't. When I looked in the bottom drawer of his dresser, there was the medallion and chain, still had some blood dried on it. Wonder what SM would think about that?"

I opened my eyes and focused on the only photo I had of my real father from back when I was maybe ten or eleven. He has a medallion around his neck in that photo. I remember asking him about it because it looked so fancy, so expensive. He said he got it from one of his guys for a birthday. What guys? I had asked; I think I was jealous that someone else had so much time with my father and could give him presents when I couldn't. Not important, he said, maybe when you get old enough I'll give it to you.

SINCLAIR

The kids were under wraps, I was feeling much better, the leg wound had stopped bleeding and the headaches were gone, and there would never be a better time to put an end to it. That's what I told Capt. Spear. Besides, the best way to protect his protégée was to put the one who might do him the most damage behind bars. Sure, when it came out that Fitzgerald was the son of a crime king it wouldn't go easy for him, but his recent history and all the good he was doing by being a cop had to count for a lot. A few nasty lines in the local daily and that would be that. All he had to do was to keep his nose clean. Of course, Capt. Spear had his own cross to bear now so maybe he wasn't so concerned about Fitzgerald's wellbeing. Could be that's why he agreed so quickly.

"Go get 'em," he said.

Easier said than done.

First things first. Put McGuire, Sprague and Hellmann under arrest and hold them for as long as possible without filing charges. They just needed to be out of communication with Sylvester until it all came down. I'll worry about whether the charges will stick later on. Hayes seemed happy to help out with that task. Seems like he had very little use for McGuire. Now he tells me. I could've used some backup months ago.

Next, count the cowboys still standing.

Sylvester: still in action, but injured. Maybe not so badly that he can't do damage. As a matter of fact, I'd place a bet on him leading the charge.

Security Guy: down for the count, I think. He looked hurt, maybe even dead.

Felix: still up and running.

Max: still up and running. He's the one in the window. Probably has a good idea of what I look like, but maybe not Fitzgerald.

Rocco: probably up and running, might suffer dizzy spells on occasion.

Mickey: definitely up and running. Might be as dangerous as Sylvester. Needs to go down early.

Fedder: most likely up and running.

Bran: most likely up and running.

Others: Don't know and that's not a good thing.

Odds: seven or more against two. Not a good thing either.

We met a block away from the gate to Sylvester's estate. I had an unmarked car and people I hoped I could trust on watch and they reported that two SUV's were parked in front and no one had left in hours. They were almost certain that everyone was in the house, although they could not be certain about Sylvester himself. No one had seen him. Maybe that wound was keeping him bedridden. The SWAT vehicle came up behind and the radio crackled twice. The pre-arranged signal. I put my arm out of the window and waved them ahead.

The SWAT guys thought the gate would go down at twenty or thirty miles per hour. They were right, pieces flew off in both directions to land on the manicured lawn, digging up big divots. The SUV's had been parked side by side facing the front of the house. Easy pickings for the SWAT team who put the nose of the big armored vehicle up tight against their tail pipes. The Sgt. in the turret kept the big gun aimed at the front door, while the remaining six members of the team went to positions at the sides and rear of the house. There was another team in the alley already, with full coverage of the upper story.

I parked to the rear of the SWAT vehicle, checked my vest and helmet and nodded to Hayes after he did the same.

"Time to go, Sergeant, you ready?"

"You bet Detective. Uh, any word about Fitzgerald."

"No, he got the message. I don't know what's up. We've got a job to do. Let's go."

Two of the SWAT guys took down the front door, and we yelled into the interior giving them an opportunity to give up. No takers. Oops, hold up, movement in the hallway. It was the one called Rocco. He had his hands over his head and was moving slowly our way. He looked back over his shoulder, making us think they were coming out that way.

It almost worked. Two of them came up the hall on the other side, with more firepower than we had thought they had. Automatic weapons on full fire raked the front two men and sent them down. Rocco hit the floor at the same time and one guy in back of him opened up, hitting us from the other flank. I keyed the mike, said "Hit them", and dropped to the floor. The guy in the turret opened up with the sixty-caliber shredding windows, walls and anything else in the way. It was over in seconds.

I checked our guys first. The two down in front had each taken rounds to the legs and one had a grazed forehead. Both of them had multiple hits in their vests. That was going to hurt in a while. Probably some cracked ribs. The guys outside hadn't caught any of it and came in running to cover the four Sylvester guys down in front of us. I picked up two more of the original six SWAT members and we checked the rest of the house. And, came up empty. No Sylvester, not anywhere. We even looked for hidden passages.

It was secure so we called in the paramedics to tend the wounded on both sides. The one called Mickey had led the charge and was very dead. Felix and Max had minor wounds. Rocco not a scratch. There were two unknowns lying behind Rocco in the hall badly injured. Maybe the Bran and Fedder pair.

I stood in the middle of the ruined living room and wondered what to do. I didn't have any idea how Sylvester had made an escape. Maybe he hadn't even been here. Before they hauled Rocco away in a squad car, I asked him about it.

"Where's your boss?"

"Don't know. He left this morning and said he would be back by three. He told us to stay put and wait for him."

Something wrong here. Three was the scheduled time for the raid. Someone had given Sylvester a heads up. Nice guy, giving up his boys like this, but who was the turncoat? Hayes? Someone else I didn't know about? No, not Hayes he led the raid and had a bullet-grazed forehead to prove it. If it had been him, he would have led from the rear. I started having a kind of queasy feeling in my stomach. Nah! Not a chance! Fifteen after three and my cell phone pinged announcing the arrival of a text. When I looked, all it said was 'warehouse'.

I didn't take anyone with me. That was stupid, I know that. I had a hunch what I would find, and I wanted to have options that witnesses would prohibit. Traffic was heavy that time of day, especially on the 495. It took a long time to make the turnoff and I was nervous things might have gone bad already. Even so, I went past the first ramp and took the Apple Orchard exit. No point in taking more chances than necessary. The bridge abutment was cordoned off with orange traffic cones, but the mess was long gone. A half mile down the road at the farm house, Simon and Martha were out sitting on the front porch and I waved at them as I went by. They waved back.

I debated parking out of sight and thought it might be slightly better to go for the element of surprise than have the vehicle close if needed for a rapid retreat. There was a wide spot on the road just before the driveway leading to the warehouse where a stand of tall brush would hide the parked car from the building. From there the walk to the rear of the building I had used for cover last time took a little over ten minutes. The smell of burnt paint, oil and grease was heavy as I entered the rear of the building. I was surprised that the burnt vehicles were still in place, and when I looked out the door of the loading bay I could see that the blackened body was still lying where I'd seen it last. I had expected that someone, Fitzgerald or a passing cop, would have reported the incident by now. I didn't know what it meant that nothing had been done yet. It made me nervous.

I opted to run across the pavement to the still open front door of the warehouse. There weren't any vehicles parked within sight. It had an abandoned look and I wondered if I had misunderstood the message; or perhaps I was early. I kept it quiet upon entering the building, and spent some time listening for noise. Hearing nothing, I went to the hallway and cursed that I had forgotten a flashlight. It was still dark in there. The light streaming in through the open door helped a little with seeing into the dark hallway, but not that much. I considered going back to the vehicle for a light, but didn't want to take the chance of being caught in the open by someone coming in on the driveway. I had probably made enough noise already to alert anyone in the building, so delaying any longer would just give them more time to get ready. Possibly, it would be the second mistake, but I started down the hall toward the bathroom in the dark. I'd make do with the cigarette lighter in my pocket.

The door to the bathroom was open, and a quick flare from my lighter showed it was unoccupied. Heading in the other direction, I checked into the rooms as I passed them. The first, where the women had been held was empty. The second, likewise. The third, still had an open loading bay door and enough light to see that nothing had changed since I spent time there on my last visit. That left the machine room. The room with the most places to hide out and wait. I checked the revolver I had been gripping hard in my left hand to make sure the safety was off and the clip full.

The door was open and the darkness inside was only slightly lessened by some light coming in from the far end. Probably from the hole in the floor I had used the last time. Not enough light to make out details, but the machines stood out slightly as darker shapes equally spaced across the room. I moved into the room a step or so and listened. I thought there was a faint rustling, like leaves blowing over a sidewalk. Where it was coming from, I couldn't tell. Then a sharper creak, from above. Damn, I forgot about the stairs! As soon as the thought occurred it got even darker.

Gradually, the world came into focus once more. The back of my head hurt like hell, and I was lying on the concrete. To my surprise, I could see quite well. There was a lamp sitting on the floor that illuminated nearly the entire room. The light hurt my eyes. I tried sitting up to get in a more comfortable position, but my arm wouldn't come into position beneath my body to push it upward. I looked along the arm and saw the reason why. My wrist was manacled to the stairway. I examined manacles closely. They were mine. Not so good. It was my left hand; the one that had been holding my revolver, which was no longer there. I looked around on the floor to see if I could find it.

"Looking for this?" A familiar deep voice came from behind me.

I tried turning my head to look in that direction. That hurt a lot, so I stopped. I heard footsteps and a man walked into my sight from behind. When he got a few feet in front of me he stopped and turned.

"I think," he said, "that the last time we met you misinformed me of your identity. Detective Sinclair, am I right?"

I started to nod, thought better of it and said, "Yes, you got it."

"I'm very happy that you decided to pay a visit here today, Detective. It will save me looking for you in the future. You have become a very large pain in my ass, Detective. I was sort of content when all you were doing was playing around at trying to clean up the police department, and not making much progress. If you had stuck to your job we would both be happy right now. But no, you had to go and butt into things on the outside. I can't have that. It interferes with the smooth operation of my ventures. In fact, it seems that you are personally responsible for taking out one of my key personnel. That was bad enough. But then---then I hear that you had the nerve to attack my own home and tear up my living room with your gunfire. That did not make me happy, Detective. A statement needs to be made now, and I am sorry to say that you will be carrying it to everybody who is listening. It will be something like a silent film acting role on your part Detective. You won't have to say a thing."

I had a fairly good idea of where this was heading, but for the life of me couldn't think of a single witty repartee.

"No memorable last words, Detective. Don't worry. I'll tell them you cursed me at the end."

He lifted the hand with the gun in it. It was my revolver. It was halfway up to pointing at my head when another voice sounded from behind. I thought I recognized that one, too.

"You might want to hold off on that, Martin."

"Ah! The kid! Hammy told me about you. Said you were too straight and he would need to break you in slowly."

"That," said Fitzgerald, "isn't going to happen now, is it? You and I have something to settle though. Something you need to answer for. Drop the gun and we will talk about it."

"No way, Kid. On the other hand the Detective here is going to be dog meat if you don't drop yours. Come on get smart. We can work out a good deal you and I. I can use a smart young guy like you. The Detective here has been causing quite a turnover lately."

I strained to look back over my shoulder, ignoring the pain, to see what Fitzgerald was going to do. He unbuttoned the top buttons on his shirt, and reaching inside pulled out a heavy gold chain with a large medallion.

"Recognize this?" He asked

I could see Martin react immediately, but the aim of his gun never wavered.

"That's Philippe's," he exclaimed, "how did you get it?"

"This piece of jewelry," Fitzgerald said, "is the sum total of my inheritance, and the only thing I have to remind me of my father."

"You... you are Philippe's son?" There was incredulity in Martin voice. "That can't be, Philippe didn't have any kids. He told me so."

"He told you what he wanted you to believe. It was his way of protecting me."

"That's even better then. There's always room for Philippe's kid. We were buddies, you know that?"

"I know that you killed him."

"Ah shit, who told you that? "

"It's something I read in a book."

"Book, what book? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Ah! You don't know about that do you? Of course not, Fred would have kept it very quiet."

"Fred? Who's Fred? Wait, you mean Freddy? That stinking little shit that did Xavier?"

"That's the one. Right Detective Sinclair?"

Finally finding a voice, I agreed. "That's right Martin, Freddy took some pains in writing down lots of interesting observations. I suspect it will do wonders for the prosecution's case at your trial."

"My trial! That's rich! You think you're going to live long enough to charge me with anything?"

"OK, that's it!" Fitzgerald's voice rose in volume drawing Martin's attention, but that damn gun didn't waiver an inch. "You think you can pull that trigger with a hole in your head?"

"You think you can hit me in the dark?"

I watched the gun in his hand switch aims and he fired a single round. The noise was immediately followed by the light going out. Then three muzzle flashes in the dark, one from Martin and two from behind me. Afterwards, silence.

"Fitzgerald! Are you alright? Fitzgerald, answer me!"

Maybe a groan off in the dark. I didn't hear anything from where Martin had been standing. I tried feeling around with my right foot. The light had been close enough to touch before he had shot it, maybe if I could bring it to within my reach I could get it to light again. My toe hit something and the sound of plastic on concrete, a kind of soft 'thunk'. I tried hooking my foot in the opposite direction, and caught something at my ankle. Hoping for the best I pulled it toward my free arm. I thought I'd tear my left arm out of its socket, but continued to make the contorted position work for me. Finally I touched something smooth and warm. It was the lantern. I picked it up in my right hand and gave it a shake, the light flickered on and then off. I set it down between my legs and felt around for a switch. There was a ragged gash in the plastic where the bullet had passed through, but I found the switch on the opposite side. I flicked it up. Nothing. Down. Nothing. I shook the damn thing, flicking the switch at the same time, and was rewarded by a light that dimmed and brightened, finally settling into a constant illumination.

I looked first in Martin's direction expecting to see him standing there aiming the gun and pulling the trigger. No one. Hold on, there he was. Sitting down, back against the wall. The light was barely strong enough to see him clearly, but there appeared to be a hole in the middle of his forehead. Impressive shot in the dark.

I looked in Fitzgerald's direction. He was down, lying on his side but facing me. I didn't see anything wrong at first, but then the spreading pool of dark fluid beneath his chest caught and reflected the light from the lantern.

"Fitzgerald!" I shouted his name.

His head moved and his eyes opened. He focused on me and coughed. His face writhed in pain.

"You alright, Detective?"

"Yeah," I replied, "I'm fine, but you aren't. Have you got your cell?"

"Yes, I do, but there isn't any signal in this building, remember?"

He lifted his hand toward the hole in his shirt. He touched the wet fabric with his fingers and pulled them away to look at them.

"I got an 'A' in the human anatomy class I took in college." He said in a voice so low I nearly didn't hear. "I didn't need to take it, it just interested me. The only reason I'm not dead yet, is that my medallion deflected the bullet just enough to only nick the aorta. Just a matter of time though. Too much blood coming out."

"Come here and take the cuffs off," I said, "I'll try to help you."

"Don't think I can make it that far Detective. But, you hang in there, someone will be along in a few minutes and she can give you a hand. I told them to meet me at four. Didn't want them to get here too soon and get in the way."

He changed his position to rest his back against the machine just next to him. His eyes closed for a moment, and the his hand slipped to the floor.

"Fitzgerald!" I yelled at him. "Fitzgerald, don't give in to it!"

He opened his eyes, and tried to smile at me. His voice was a little stronger when he spoke again.

"It'll be OK to have all this done with, Guy. I can call you Guy now, can't I?"

"Sure you can. Stay awake. Tell me how things have turned out this way."

"Story too long. You can read all about it in Fred's journal. He called it the Gospel According to Fred." He tried another smile. "Volume Two is the most interesting one. It's still under the trailer. I didn't want the story getting out. Now...now it doesn't matter. You need to go there Guy. You need to look in the trailer off to the right from Fred's. You'll find Fred Figueroa's Hidey Hole there. That's what he called it: his Hidey Hole. That's where I found him."

"Who?" I asked

"Name's Kurt, the one Cipriano tried to kill. Almost finished him, but Fred got him to safety just in time. I took him to the emergency room, but he's not in good shape."

He had been holding his head up to look at me, it slumped down to the floor. I could see his eyes flicker, and then open wide. He didn't move again.

I had a lot of time to think about things before I heard the noise in the hallway and a voice calling my name. It was Sgt. Hayes. There was the sound of a two sets of footsteps running in my direction. Heather came in first, with Sgt. Hayes right on her heels. He had his weapon drawn. I started to warn her to get out of the way, but then he saw the bodies lying around and holstered his weapon and went to check for vitals. He came over to me last, got out his keys and released my wrist from confinement. I decided I'd been right about him.

I went to talk to Capt. Spear the day before he retired. He was young for retirement, just sixty-one, but I thought it was the right move, what with all the fallout that was going to start in a few days. He deserved a briefing before he left. He had been mostly a good cop, certainly a good supervisor, and almost certainly a good influence on Fitzgerald.

"Sir," I began, "We offered them all a deal, talk and maybe a reduced sentence. Rocco was the only one to take it at first. He was always the weak link in that bunch, and I think that blow to his head had a lasting influence on him. As soon as he started talking and we dropped some hints based upon what he was saying and the information in Figueroa's dairies; there was a rush to be next. I let McGuire have that honor. He knows the most, and no matter what deal he gets from the DA he'll be an old man before he gets out. Maybe he'd do his time at a white collar prison, if I were him I'd take that deal.

"Sprague and Hillman will go down on conspiracy charges. I don't know if we can bring anything more serious to the game. Felix and Max, will recover in custody. It's anybody's guess how much the DA will do to them, their office is still sorting through the possible charges. Teddy may or may not pull through. Ditto for Bran and Fedder. The doc's aren't taking bets either way. If they do, it will be on convalescence in state prison, and we have enough to keep them there for quite a while. Speaking of docs, Rocco gave up the name of Sylvester's doctor. We know where he is and are filing for extradition. Keep your fingers crossed."

"Thank you Detective Sinclair," he mumbled, "I know you did a good job, but at the end I find I can't quite excuse you for not protecting young Fitzgerald. Not just because of his death either. You know what they will say about him: 'Like Father, Like Son'. He doesn't deserve that."

"You don't hold me responsible any less than I do. I made a mistake in giving him his head. It is no excuse that I didn't know his background until late. Things might have turned out better if I had known about it earlier, but somehow I think he would have found a way to try to exact his revenge no matter what. Maybe people will say that about him, but in this house they will say that he was a son who loved his father, no matter what, and paid the price for it. Not good, not bad, just human."

"What about that man, the one that Fitzgerald might have taken to the hospital?"

"Kurt Dawson is his name. And, yes, we are virtually certain that Fitzgerald's actions kept him alive. Not such a good prognosis there, I'm afraid. Too long in an oxygen-poor environment, and along with excessive blood loss they are thinking that some, maybe extensive, brain damage is the result. He is showing signs of consciousness they say, but they also say he might never be the same mentally. He won't be a witness in any case. Even if he remembered anything, no one would trust his memory of events."

There was silence in the room that seemed to stretch out for minutes. Then he made a noise that I took for "Goodbye", so I left.

Later that afternoon, I took a break and wandered over to the local coffee shop. Heather was already there, perched on a stool and sipping a latte. We were spending more time together lately, and it seemed to be working out. Who knows, maybe it's not too late after all.

"So," she said as we were about to leave, "you've got all the loose ends wrapped up tight, except for the one?"

"What 'one' is that?"

"Philippe, of course. You said that Xavier Cipriano saved him and tried to treat his wounds. So what happened to him?"

I realized that I had no idea. "Huh? What do you know? I don't have a clue. Maybe I'll keep the case file open for a while, just to see if there is somewhere else to dig."

EPILOG

The four of us walked up the gentle slope to the place under the poplar tree. It was a chilly, mid-September morning with low clouds threatening to produce some rain. Angelina and I carried the cold chest between us and each had a couple of folding stools in our opposite hands. I could hear the footsteps behind us, one set firm and steady, the other erratic and shuffling. Mrs. Kelly cooed and said words of encouragement to keep him from stopping to stare at something that interested him. We set the cold chest down and put the now unfolded stools two to one side and two to the other.

Angelina stared at the engravings and made tisking noises.

"It's not that old, why should there be mold on it already?"

She walked over and used the hem of her raincoat to wipe away the gray stuff. Satisfied with her efforts, she came back and sat on her stool.

I stared at the dates, like I did every year. If you subtracted the older date from the younger, the remainder would be slightly less than twenty-one years.

Mrs. Kelly opened the bottles, one ginger ale and the other Asti Spumante, and poured the four plastic glasses half-full. After she had passed them around, three of us raised our glasses to a toast. It was Angelina's turn this year.

"Here's to the annual meeting of the Birthday Club," she said. "May the year ahead be so full of joy that the year just past is lost to memory."

I thought her words were perfect. We brought the plastic glasses to our lips and took a long sip. Kurt held his up to his nose, and smiled when the bubbles jumping up from the ginger ale tickled his nose. His lips found the straw Mrs. Kelly had put in his glass and slurped loudly. We all smiled.

Angelina opened the top of the cold chest, brought out the red and white box from the bakery, closed the lid and set the box on top. Mrs. Kelly took the broad bladed knife and a serving spatula from her purse. Angelina opened the box and folded down the sides to expose the white icing with the purple decorations. It was vanilla icing over chocolate cake: the only flavor combination we could all agree upon. She cut the five equal pieces and put them on little cardboard plates. I picked up the end cut, the one with the most icing, and walked over to put it on the ground just in front of the headstone. The local birds and squirrels were going to have sugar highs for a few days. I smiled at the thought of squirrels doing summersaults and hyperactive pigeons.

As I was returning to my stool, Kurt took a huge bite out of the cake where the icing was the thickest, chewed a couple of times, smiled, and said "Mmmm, good!"

Instead of picking up my cake right away after sitting, I reached my hand across the space between my stool and Angelina's. Her hand met mine in the middle of the space and our fingers intertwined. Kurt saw what we had done and his smile got even bigger.

