Show of Evil

Thirty-One

The pilot put the twin-engine plane down on a grass strip in a little town called Milford in southern Indiana. There was no Tony in a Cadillac to greet him, so Vail and St Claire rented a car at the small airport and drove six miles south across the Flatrock River to the Justine Clinic. The hospital was a pleasant departure from the Daisy. It was shielded from the highway by a half-mile-deep stand of trees, at the end of a gravel road. As Vail and St Claire burst out of the miniforest, Justine spread out before them, looking more like a collective farm than a mental hospital. A cluster of old brick buildings surrounded a small lake. A tall, brick silo stood alone and solitary, like a sentinel in the middle of the sprawling field that separated the facility from the woods. A tall chain-link fence behind the buildings on one side of the lake formed what appeared to be an enormous playground. Several children were hanging on a spinning whirligig, while a woman in a thick red jacket sat nearby reading a book. A boat dock with a tin-roofed boathouse at its end stretched out into the lake and a floating raft drifted forlornly about twenty yards from the shore. It was a pleasant-seeming place, unlike the cold, foreboding penal-colony atmosphere of the Daisy.

'Looks like a summer camp I went to once when I was a kid,' St Claire said.

'Somehow I never thought of you as a kid, Harve,' Vail said.

'I was about nine. Damn, I hated it. We had to swim in this lake, musta been forty below. M'lips were blue the whole two weeks I was there.' He paused to spit out the car window. 'What's this guy's name again?'

'Lowenstein. Dr Fred Lowenstein. He's the director.'

'Sound like a nice-guy?'

'He was very pleasant on the phone.'

'And she wouldn't talk to you, huh?'

'Her secretary said she was in a meeting, so I asked for the director.'

'He knows what's goin' on?'

'Vaguely.'

They pulled up to what appeared to be the main building, a sprawling brick barn of a place with a slate roof, and parked beside several other cars on a gravelled oval in front of the structure. Gusts of wind whined off the lake and swirled into dancing dust monkeys as they got out of the car. A young boy in his early teens was hosing down a battered old pickup truck nearby.

'We're looking for Dr Lowenstein,' Vail said to him. 'Is his office in here?' The boy nodded and watched them enter.

The lobby of the building was an enormous room with a soaring ceiling and a great open fireplace surrounded by faded, old, fluffy sofas and chairs. The receptionist, a chunky woman in her late forties with wispy blue-grey hair held up by bobby pins, sat behind a scarred maple desk angled to one side of the entrance. A Waterford drinking glass sat on one corner of her desk stuffed with a half-dozen straw flowers. Behind her, a large Audobon print of a cardinal hung slightly lopsided on the wall. The only thing modern in the entire room was the switchboard phone.

'Help you?' she asked pleasantly.

'Martin Vail to see Dr Lowenstein. I have an appointment.'

'From Chicago?'

'Right.'

'Boy, didn't take you long't'get here,' she said, lifting the phone receiver.

'The miracle of flight,' St Claire said, his eyes twinkling.

She looked at him over rimless glasses for a second, then: 'Doc, your guests are here from the Windy City, Uh-huh, I mentioned that. It's the miracle of flight. 'Kay.' She cradled the phone. 'First door on the right,' she said, motioning down a hall towards an open door and smiling impishly at St Claire.

Lowenstein was a great moose of a man with burly shoulders and shaggy brown hair that swept over his ears and curled around the collar of a plaid shirt. The sleeves were turned up halfway to his elbows and his battered corduroy pants had shiny spots on the knees. He had a pleasant, ruddy face and warm brown eyes, and there was about him a pleasant, haphazard attitude unlike the measured mien of the pipe-smoking Woodward. He was sitting at a roll-top desk, leaning over a large yellow butterfly mounted on a white square of cardboard, studying it through a magnifying glass. A cup of tea sat forgotten among stacks of papers and pamphlets that cluttered the desktop. He looked up as Vail tapped on the door frame.

'Dr Lowenstein? Martin Vail. This is Harve St Claire.'

'Well, you certainly didn't waste any time getting here,' he said in a gruff rumble of a voice.

'We have a twin-engine Cessna available when the occasion demands,' Vail said. 'An hour beats driving for three hours.'

'I would say.' He put down the magnifying glass and offered a calloused hand that engulfed Vail's.

'Pretty thing,' St Claire said, nodding to the mounted butterfly.

'Just a common monarch,' Lowenstein said. 'Found it on the windowsill this morning. Thought the kids might enjoy studying it. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?'

'No thanks,' Vail said.

Lowenstein sat back at the desk and swept a large paw towards two wooden chairs.

'I appreciate your help on this, Doctor,' said Vail. 'I wouldn't have bothered you except that Molly wouldn't take my call.'

'I understand the nature of your problem, Mr Vail, but I don't know a hell of a lot about the Stampler case. It's my feeling that you and Molly need to address the problem. I'm also certain she would have refused a meeting if you had reached her by phone.'

'Why?'

'Molly had a breakdown four years ago. A combination of exhaustion, depression, and alcohol. She was a patient here for a year and a half.'

'I'm sorry, I had no idea…'

'She overcame the major problems. There were some side effects. She was agoraphobic for about a year. Lived on the grounds. Wouldn't leave. To her credit, she overcame that, too. Has a little house down the road. Bought herself a car. She's working mainly with children now, and quite successfully. Avoids pushing herself. She's a brilliant woman, as you know. Graduated magna cum laude from Indiana State. A very compassionate lady.'

'I know that, sir,' said Vail. 'She did a remarkable job on the Stampler case.'

'That's what I'm driving at. I think it left its scars.'

'In what way?'

'I've never been quite sure. She was, uh, very subdued when she first came back. Didn't want to talk about the experience for a long time. In fact, never has except in the most clinical terms. It's certainly not an experience she cares to relive.'

'Why did you invite us over if she won't speak to us?'

'Because your problem is serious. She's strong enough now to deal with it and put it behind her.'

'Are you her therapist?'

'I have been. She is also a dear friend, has been for fifteen years. Her brother's problems contributed to the breakdown. Are you familiar with that?'

Vail nodded. 'Delayed stress syndrome from Vietnam?'

'Yes. He's catatonic. Never has recovered. Pretty tough to deal with.'

'This is certainly a pleasant atmosphere,' Vail said. 'If she had to suffer through that experience I can't think of a better place to do it. It's certainly a far cry from Daisyland.'

'Thanks. We're not much for show here,' he said.

'So Molly agreed to the meeting?'

'I told her it was a grave situation. No details. She trusts my judgement.'

'Thanks.' Vail and St Claire stood to leave. Vail turned at the door. 'By the way, Doctor, could you describe a psychopath for me? Not in heavy psychotalk, just the basics.'

Lowenstein regarded Vail for a moment, slowly nodded. 'Totally amoral, usually paranoid, harbours great rage - which he can successfully hide. Remember the boy in the Texas tower? Nobody knew how angry he was until he turned the town into a shooting gallery. Psychopaths also tend to consider others inferior, have contempt for their peers, and they're antisocial, pathological liars. Laws don't count to them.'

'Homicidal?'

'Can be. Depends on the extent of the rage. They can also be charming, intelligent, witty, often socially desirable. Why?'

'I think Aaron Stampler fits the profile perfectly.'

'A real charmer, eh?'

Vail nodded.

'Well, that's what keeps us in business, Mr Vail,' Lowenstein said, turning back to his butterfly. 'Second door on the left. She's expecting you.'

Dr Molly Arrington's sitting room adjoined her office and was a study in simple elegance. It was a small room, cosy and inviting, dominated by a forest-green chesterfield sofa with overstuffed cushions and pillows. Two dark-oak Kennedy rocking chairs balanced the searing arrangement and a large antique coffee table held the group together. The walls were papered with a grey-and-white striped pattern. A shaggy blanket with a silly-looking, wall-eyed black and white cow knitted in its centre was thrown over one arm of the sofa and there was a rube vase holding a single, enormous yellow daisy on one corner of the table. Soft light filtered through a single window, forming deep shadows in the corners of the room.

'Hello, Martin,' she said, stepping out of the shadows, her voice just above a whisper. Vail was taken aback by Molly Arrington's appearance. She was smaller than Vail remembered, her once unblemished skin creased with the ridges of time and tragedy, her ash-brown hair streaked with grey and cropped close to her ears. Her pale blue eyes had an almost haunted look. It was obvious that a year and a half in the institution had taken a toll, and yet there was about her an aura of uncompromising stubbornness in the jut of her chin and the brace of her shoulders.

'Hi, Molly. Good to see you again.'

'Ten years,' she said. 'Such a long time. You haven't changed a bit. Come in and sit down.' She smiled at St Claire. 'I'm Molly.'

'Harve St Claire, Doctor. A real pleasure.'

Vail sat on the sofa and St Claire eased himself into one of the rockers and leaned back with a sigh.

'This place is delightful,' Vail said. 'Reminds me of a funky New England prep school. I can understand why you love it here.'

'Fred calls it the campus,' she said. 'I lived out here for a while.'

'He told us.'

'I live in town now. Go shopping, go to the movies,' she said with a rueful smile. I'm not agoraphobic any more.'

'I'm sorry you were ill. I didn't know.'

'Thanks. It was a strange experience, being one of them instead of one of us. Gave me a different perspective on life,' she said, ending any further discussion of her hard times. She took an ashtray from a drawer and put it on the coffee table. 'You may smoke in here,' she said. She seemed so calm, Vail wondered if she was on some kind of tranquillizer.

'Whatever happened to Tommy Goodman?' she asked. 'Is he still with you?'

'Tommy met a wine princess from Napa Valley, got married, and is now the vice president of her old man's wine company. He drives a Rolls and has a three-year-old son who looks like a ferret.'

She laughed, a pleasant, loose kind of laugh, throwing her head back and closing her eyes.

'Tommy a mogul, hard to believe. And you?'

'I'm the district attorney.'

'You're kidding.'

'Afraid not. Harve, here, is one of my top investigators. He helped track down Pancho Villa.'

'I ain't quite that old, ma'am.' St Claire chuckled.

'Naomi?'

'Still running the ship.'

'I know about the Judge, he was a friend of my aunt's. How sad. He was such a gentleman. Always had that fresh carnation in his lapel.'

'I miss him a lot,' Vail said. 'It's not as much fun any more.'

'What?'

For a moment, Vail seemed stumped by the question, then he said, 'Everything, I guess.'

She got up and walked across the room to a small refrigerator in the corner. 'How about a Coke or some fruit juice?'

'Sure, I'll take a Coke.'

'Same, ma'am,' St Claire said.

'Okay in the bottle?'

'Only way to drink 'em,' St Claire said with a smile.

She opened three bottles, carefully cleaned the tops of them with a paper towel, wrapped the bottles with linen napkins, and brought them back. She sat down and lit a cigarette.

'This involves Aaron Stampler, doesn't it? Your coming here?'

'Yes.'

'Are they letting him out?'

'How'd you guess?'

'Well, it's been ten years…'

'What's that mean?'

'They could have effected a cure in that time.'

'There's no way to cure Stampler.'

'You thought so ten years ago.'

'I wanted to know that if he was cured, he would be freed, not sent to Rock Island to finish his sentence. But I never figured it would happen.'

'What's the diagnosis?'

'Ever heard of a resulting personality?'

'Of course.'

'His psychiatrist claims he has developed a new persona named Raymond Vulpes. Aaron and Roy, it seems, have gone to that great split-personality place in hell.'

'That's pretty cynical, Martin. Don't you ever feel some sense of redemption, knowing that you saved him?'

'No.'

'Why, for heaven's sake?'

'Because I don't believe him. I don't believe there ever was a Roy and I think Raymond is a figment of Aaron's imagination, not his psyche - aided by Woodward's ego.'

'Sam Woodward? He's his doctor?'

'Has been for almost ten years. You know Woodward?'

'Only by reputation.'

'Which is…?'

'Excellent. He's highly respected in the community. You think Aaron Stampler tricked Sam Woodward and you and me and the state psychiatrist, the prosecutor, the judge - '

'All of us. Yes, I believe that. I believe he's a raving psychopath and one helluva actor.'

'That's impossible, Martin.'

'You remember telling me the instant before Roy first appeared to you, the room got cold and you couldn't breathe? Do you remember that?'

'Yes, I remember that quite well. I had never experienced anything quite like it.'

'It happened to me when I walked into the room and met Stampler - or Vulpes - for the first time in ten years. It was like an omen. Like I was in the presence of tremendous evil. Nothing like that ever happened to me, either.'

'Anticipation. You obviously have a vivid memory of my description. You expected it and - '

'It happened before I saw him. I didn't even know he was in the room.'

There was a pause, then she asked, 'Did you have any sense of anxiety when you went up there?'

'I was uncomfortable.'

'About seeing Aaron again?'

'That may have been a small part of it. Mainly, I don't like Daisyland.'

'You're not supposed to like it, Martin. It's not like going to the theatre.'

'That's not what I mean. There's a… I don't know… a sense of hopelessness about the place.'

He was leading her up to the reason they were there, trying to get the dialogue flowing easily, renewing her trust in him, and not doing too well.

He turned to St Claire. 'Harve, do you mind stepping outside for a minute?' The old-timer excused himself and left the room.

'What I'm about to tell you would normally violate the confidentiality between client and lawyer,' Vail said, 'but since you were his psychiatrist, I can tell you with immunity. You're also bound by confidentiality.'

He told her about Aaron's last words to him after the trial.

'He wasn't kidding,' Vail said as he finished. 'I think his ego had to let me know.'

'Why didn't you tell me at the time?'

'Why? Hell, it wouldn't have done a bit of good. Stampler could have stood on the courthouse steps five minutes after the trial and told the world he was sane and he killed those three people in cold blood and there's not a damn thing anyone could have done about it. He pleaded guilty to three murders and his sentence was passed and final. Nothing could have changed that, Molly, it's called double jeopardy.'

'You also told me it was your job to find the holes and use them against the law so it would be changed.'

'In a court of law. Don't you understand, we can't get Raymond Vulpes in court. You and I are both bound by the tenets of confidentiality. If I had gone to Judge Shoat and told him that I had made a mistake based on Stampler's comment, I could have been disbarred - and considering how Shoat despised me, probably would've been. So what possible good would have come from telling you what Stampler said? There wasn't a damn thing you could do about it, either.'

'So now the time's come to free him and you want to keep him inside because of some remark he made ten years ago.'

'It's a much more complex problem than that.'

'Not my problem, Martin.'

'That's right, but I need all the help I can get right now. Vulpes is going to walk. There's nothing I can do to stop him and Vulpes knows it. Woodward is convinced that Stampler and Roy no longer exist. He believes in Raymond Vulpes. And he's convinced the state board.'

'It's uncomfortable to think about. I love medicine as much as you love the law. If this is true, I feel, I don't know, as if we both perverted our professions.'

'Not you. You did your job.'

'Not very well, I'm afraid.'

'He faked us both out, Molly. But I wanted to be faked, I wanted to believe him because it was the one way to beat the case. Ironic, isn't it? The thing I fear most is prosecuting an innocent person, but I have to live with the fact that I am responsible for saving a guilty one.'

'Then be practical about it. If there's nothing that can be done, put it behind you. It's not your business any more.'

'It's my business because he wants it that way.'

'What do you mean, he wants it that way?'

Vail asked St Claire to rejoin them. 'What do you remember most about the murder of the bishop?' Vail asked.

'Most vividly? The pictures,' she said. 'They were ghastly.'

'What else? How about the Altar Boys? Do you remember their names?'

'Afraid not. I remember he killed them.'

'Not all. One got away. His name was Alex Lincoln. Do you remember Stampler's girlfriend?'

'Yes. I met her once. At that shelter…'

'Saviour House. Her name was Linda Gellerman.'

'She was very frightened. And she was pregnant. She was going to have an abortion, as I recall.'

'That's right. She straightened her life out, married a nice guy two years ago, and had a little boy.'

She smiled. 'It's nice to hear a story with a happy ending.'

'Unfortunately, the story doesn't end there. A few months ago somebody walked into her house one morning and chopped her to bits in front of her child.'

'Oh…'

'Now somebody has done the same thing to Alex Lincoln. Exactly the same MO as the Stampler murders, including the genital mutilation and the symbols on the back of the head. We know the same person committed both murders - one in southern Illinois, the other one outside St Louis. But Stampler's still in the maximum security wing and he hasn't had a letter or a visitor in almost ten years.'

'But you think he's involved in some way?'

'Something like that.'

'How could he be?'

'We don't know how and we don't know why. But I'm positive he's directing a copycat killer. We — Harve and I - think it may have something to do with transference.'

'Transference? I don't understand.'

'Isn't it true that transference sometimes causes the patient to have irrational expectations from the people they work and live with? That re-experiencing can cause problems?'

'It can. There are other reasons. People naturally seek approval from their parents or supervisors. Frustration of these expectations may evoke rage or other immature behaviour patterns.'

'Or worse?'

'Yes.'

'And these tendencies wouldn't be immediately obvious to the psychiatrist, would they?'

'Usually the symptoms of abnormal behaviour are what put the patient into treatment in the first place.'

'I didn't ask you that.'

'What are you suggesting?'

'That perhaps someone you were treating may have had mental problems far more severe than - '

Her cheeks began to colour and her tone took on an edge. 'You really don't think much of my ability, do you, Martin?'

'Of course I do!'

'You didn't even use me as a witness in the trial.'

'You served your purpose, Molly. Hell, if it weren't for you…' He stopped, realizing where his thought was heading.

'If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be in this fix, is that what you were going to say?'

'No, no, no.' He shook his head. 'I'm responsible for the problem, nobody else.'

'Then stop implying - '

'I'm not implying anything!'

'You're implying one of my patients is this killer of yours.'

'No, we think it's possible, that's all. Do you still have the tapes you made with Stampler?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Where are they?'

'Under lock and key.'

'Where?'

'In my office.'

'May we see them?'

'What are you trying to prove?'

'May we see them, please?'

She got up and opened the door to her private office. The walls were lined with oak book cabinets with glass doors. They were filled with reports, files, and near the end of one shelf the Stampler tapes, twenty-three of them, each in his own black box with the date on the spine. There were also several locked file cabinets.

'I also keep audiotapes of most of my interviews,' she said with a touch of sarcasm. 'They're in the locked files.'

'Do you ever leave them open? You know, during the day when you're getting stuff out of them?'

'The tapes have never been out of this office.'

'Have you ever discussed them with anyone?'

'I've discussed the case, in strictly medical terms.'

'No details on, for instance, the Altar Boys?'

'Absolutely not. Never. They're confidential. And they're invaluable as a research tool.' She stopped, her brow bunched up in a scowl. 'You're questioning me as if I were on the witness stand and I resent it!'

'I'm trying to figure out how the copycat killer knew about Linda and Alex. The tapes are a very logical possibility. Did you ever mention anything about the motive for Rushman's murder to - '

'You know I couldn't do that even if I wanted to. I have a responsibility to my patient. You're asking me to violate confidentiality.'

'Don't play games with me, Molly,' Vail said, and anger was creeping into his tone. 'This isn't about shrink-patient relationships, it's about slaughter. Not just murder - slaughter! Stampler is a mass murderer. Want a list? Shackles. His brother. Mary Lafferty, his old girlfriend. Some guy in Richmond, we don't even know his name, for God's sake. Rushman, Peter Holloway, Bill Jordan. Alex Lincoln, and poor little Linda Gellerman trying to make sense out of a screwed-up life in some little nowhere town. Count 'em up, lady, that's nine - that we know about! Don't tell me about confidentiality when there are two butchers on the loose.'

'How dare you talk to me like that! How dare…'

'Molly, someone you treated or worked with may be a serial killer taking orders from Stampler. Think about it - both of them could be your clients. You want to protect them by invoking doctor-patient confidentiality?'

'You would, if they were your clients,' she snapped back.

Vail hesitated for a moment. Suddenly he became calm, speaking just above a whisper. 'Stampler was my client,' he said. 'I made a mistake. Now I'm trying to rectify it. We don't want details. We want names. We can check them out discreetly. We're not going to hurt or embarrass anyone, but we have to stop the killing.'

She did not answer. Instead she got up and slunk back into the shadows of the room, becoming a fragile silhouette in the corner. St Claire shifted uneasily in his chair, astounded by Vail's attack on Molly Arrington. He needed a chew. The silence in the room was unsettling. Then as suddenly as his temper had erupted, Vail became quiet. His shoulders sagged and he shook his head. The silent stalemate lasted a full five minutes. It was Molly who finally spoke.

'It's all supposition, anyway,' she said feebly.

'I would have to disagree, ma'am,' St Claire said softly, finally breaking his silence. 'I believe in my heart that the copycat killer came from here, just like I believe Stampler's makin' a fool of you like he's makin' a fool of us. I don't pretend't'understand why, I reckon you're the only one in this room could even make a stab at figgerin' that out. But there ain't any doubt in m'mind that he's a genuine, full-blown monster. He don't deserve an ounce of pity or sympathy or compassion. And whoever it is - doin' his biddin'? - is just as bad.'

'How would you know?' she asked from the safety of her dark penumbra. 'I mean, even if I gave you names, how would you know if one of them…' She let the sentence trail off.

'You'd just have't'trust us on that. Have to be somebody had access to your tapes. Somebody who may have even come here lookin' for 'em, who looked on Stampler as a hero.'

'Somebody who was in a position to kill Linda Balfour and Alex Lincoln on the days they were murdered,' Vail said.

'And you think Aaron Stampler turned this person into a serial killer?'

'Not at all. I think the potential was there, all Stampler did was capitalize on it. I think maybe, somehow, transference played a key role in this.'

Molly stepped back out of the shadows and sat down on the rocker facing St Claire and Vail. She said, 'You keep bringing up transference.'

'It's something Woodward said.' Vail, who had taken notes of the audiotape, took out his notebook and flipped through the pages. 'Here it is. He was talking about the downside of transference, how it creates a subconscious fear that old injuries and insults will be repeated. He said it's a double-edged sword, that the fear of re-experiencing all past injuries can turn the patient against the therapist. And then he said, and this is a quote, "Abhorrent behaviour patterns can be mirrored only to individuals who would normally accept the transference." '

'That's true,' she said. 'Nobody can transmit abnormal moral standards to another unless the receiver is capable of such behaviour to begin with.'

'See, ma'am, what we think happened, and understand this here's a rank amateur talking, what we think is that this copycat killer was in therapy and reacted adversely to re-experiencing. So that person sought out Stampler for assurance, and Stampler was brilliant enough to become the killer's mentor.'

'The killer transferred to Stampler?'

'Yes. And Stampler capitalized on the killer's instability,' said Vail.

'We ain't sure just how the killer contacted Stampler, Doctor, we don't know at this point how that was accomplished, but that seems the likely scenario since Stampler wasn't in any position to contact anyone on the outside. What I mean, somebody came to him, he didn't go't'them.'

'Why do you think that person was here?'

' 'Cause of the tapes. The tapes are the one place the copycat coulda learned about Rushman and the Altar Boys. And about Linda.' St Claire paused for a minute, then said, 'I just had a thought. S'posin' this person wasn't a full-time patient - '

'An outpatient?' Molly interrupted.

'Or maybe an employee. Somebody who was workin' here and who was also bein' treated for some kinda mental problem. Got into the files, studied Stampler… and then maybe left here - maybe got a job at Daisyland for a while…'

'And was proselytized by Stampler.' Vail finished the sentence.

'It coulda happened. Ain't much else makes any sense.'

'Is that possible, Molly?' Vail asked.

'Well, there's certainly no rule that says a patient always transfers to a doctor.'

'So what we're lookin' for here is someone who is your basic psychopath and left here…'

'Or was on vacation or leave on the days when Balfour and Lincoln were killed,' Vail added.

'You mean this person might still be here?'

'No, ma'am. We think - and once again we're guessin' - that the killer's in Chicago waitin' for Stampler-Vulpes - to get out.'

'And he gets out today, Molly.'

'We're also guessin' he's got a list of future victims.'

'A list drawn up by Vulpes.'

Vail put his briefcase on the couch beside him, opened it, and removed a large manila envelope. He took out three photographs. He handed her the photo of Linda Balfour's corpse, taken by the police. She looked at it in horror and turned her head as she handed it back to him.

'Alex Lincoln was a delivery man for UPD. He was lured to a house near St Louis and killed. This photograph was in a box that Alex Lincoln was delivering. The real residents of the house were out of town at the time.'

He handed her the Polaroid shot of Balfour. Her eyes widened as she realized it had been taken by the killer.

'My God.'

'You're a psychiatrist, Molly,' said Vail. 'How do you figure this? The same MO as Stampler's murders. Messages in blood on the backs of both heads. References to Rushman's books, which are now in a private library. And the last surviving members of the Altar Boys. That information was never brought out in the trial. How did the killer even know about them?'

'Thing is, Dr Arrington, we ain't askin' to look in no files or ask about specifics. What we need to find out is if there's a chance that a patient or an employee here coulda got a squint at those tapes, and if so, where we can locate that person now. Hell, could be a half-dozen or a dozen fits the bill. Our job'd be to narrow it down, find out if any of 'em coulda been in Gideon, Illinois, and St Louis, Missouri, on the dates those two folks was killed. We sure ain't lookin' to drag a whole buncha folks in and have 'em psychologically evaluated, if that's what you're worried about.'

'And you think this killer went from here to Daisyland?'

'Possibly,' said Vail. 'Maybe not directly from here, but ultimately managed to make contact with Stampler there.'

'When would this killer have been here?'

'Not sure, ma'am. Could go way back, but the first killin' occurred last October, so my best guess is two, three years ago.'

'How many people are on the grounds - staff and inmates?' Vail asked.

'Patients, not inmates, please.'

'Sorry.'

'Our patient list is held to three hundred fifty. There's a medical staff of twenty-two and another twenty in the kitchen, security, main office. About four hundred altogether.'

'Big turnover?'

'On staff? Not really. It's a pleasant place to work, the wages are excellent.'

'Patients?'

'I'm guessing - I would say the average stay would be two to three years. We have some long-termers and we have some who are gone in six months. Also about a third of them are children, three to twenty-one.'

'Tell you what'd help, ma'am. If we could get us a list of the staff and patients for the past three years.'

'We can't release the names of our patients. This is a private hospital, patients are guaranteed anonymity.'

'How about a list of staff and anyone on staff who might have been undergoing treatment while they were employed here?' Vail suggested.

She thought about that for a bit, then excused herself and went towards her office. She stopped at the door and said, 'I'm not playing prima donna. These people have very fragile egos. They need all the breaks they can get. It doesn't always have a happy ending, sometimes they end up back here - or someplace worse. We're not infallible, you know, it's not like treating mumps.'

She went into the office and closed the door.

St Claire leaned over and whispered, 'You realized we could be chasin' the biggest wild-goose in history.'

'Got a better idea?' Vail whispered back.

'Hell, no, it was my idea to begin with.'

They could hear her muffled voice as she spoke on the phone. Vail lit a cigarette. Ten minutes crept by before she came back. She sat down in the rocking chair.

'I'm not comfortable with this,' she said. 'I talked to Lowie - Fred - and our personnel director, Jean Frampton, and they agreed to give up the staff records. They left it up to me, whether to discuss staffers who were also outpatients. That's what I'm uncomfortable about. These people, when they reveal themselves to us, that's the ultimate in trust. To violate that…'

'I understand that, ma'am, and we certainly appreciate your feelings. Could I make one suggestion, please? If there are staffers who were patients, maybe we could discuss 'em in general terms, not necessarily by name, unless they become real strong candidates.'

'We'll see.'

'Fair 'nuff.'

Thirty minutes later they had a computer printout of the staff members going back for the past five years. They spread the sheet on the coffee table and she began going down the list. It was divided into sections: Name, address, age, sex, education, qualifications, previous employment. There was also a check box marked References and another marked Photograph. There were fifty-five names on the list. Thirty-eight had been employed the entire three years. Six others had been there at least two years, four were relative newcomers, and seven had been dismissed or had resigned.

'Let's start with them,' St Claire suggested.

Molly had a remarkable memory for all the staffers, knew their backgrounds and temperaments, how proficient they were. 'When you see the same forty people every day for years, you get to know them very well,' she explained. They went down the list, checking backgrounds, discussing each of the people as if he or she was a candidate for office. As the afternoon wore on, she became increasingly interested in the project, gradually cutting down the list, occasionally making a discreet phone call to clarify questions that arose. St Claire was beginning to question his hunch, although not out loud. They finally eliminated all but three prospects, two women and a man.

'Jan Rider,' said Molly. 'She was an inpatient for several years, then lived in a halfway house as an outpatient for about six months. She was a housekeeper. Borderline psychotic. Delusionary, disassociated. Her neighbours had her committed when she went into the backyard stark naked and prayed to a tree. She believed it was the Virgin Mary.'

'Do you know where she is now?'

'The state hospital in Ohio. She was one of our failures.'

'Are you sure she's still there?'

'Yes.'

'Next.'

'Sidney Tribble. I'll tell you right off the top, he is from St Louis and he went back there after he got his ticket. Tribble has a sister there, they're quite close. He's got a good job making an acceptable salary. No psychological recurrences so far.'

'Why was he here?'

'Schizoid, paranoid, dissociative.'

'Why was he committed?'

'Court order. His wife left him and he began to delude. Thought she and her new boyfriend were taunting him. He stabbed a man in a shopping mall, someone he didn't even know, he just picked up a pair of shears in a hardware department and attacked him.'

'Did he kill him?'

She shook her head. 'The wounds were relatively superficial. The judge ordered confinement and treatment and his sister paid to have him committed here instead of the state hospital.'

'How long was he here?'

'A year in treatment, a little over two years as an employee and an outpatient. He worked here as our electrician. Went back to St Louis about a year ago.'

St Claire cast a glance at Vail, then made a note beside Tribble's name: 'Possible.'

'Okay, who's next?' Vail asked.

'Rene Hutchinson. She was also on the housekeeping staff. Very bright; in fact, she taught a class of ten-year-olds and was quite good at it, but she didn't want the responsibility. She worked as a housekeeper, then later she assisted in the infirmary. Pretty woman, kind of raw-boned. Pioneer stock.'

'How old was she?'

'Late thirties.'

'What was her problem?'

'She wasn't my patient,' Molly said. 'I would prefer you ask Dr Salzman. He treated her.'

Think he'll talk to us?'

'We'll find out,' she said, and went to the phone.

Orin Salzman was a small man with a greying Vandyke beard and neatly cropped black hair. His shoulders were stooped and rounded as if weighted by the burden of his patients. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, khaki slacks, and a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and seemed a bit put out at being interrupted. He appeared at Molly's door, hands stuffed in his pockets, staring at them through thick tortoiseshell glasses. Molly offered him a drink, which he declined.

'What's this about?' he asked in a stern tone, leaning against the doorjamb.

Molly introduced Vail and St Claire and explained the situation briefly, without going into too many details. Salzman was superficially familiar with the Stampler case, which helped.

'They're interested in Rene Hutchinson's case,' Molly said.

'You know I can't divulge my work with Rene,' he said.

'Look, Doctor,' St Claire said, 'we ain't lookin' to cause this Hutchinson woman any grief. But we gotta check all these people out. If we ask anythin' that you feel is privileged, jest say so, we'll back off.'

'Hmm,' he said. He slowly eased himself into the room and sat on the opposite end of the couch from Vail. 'So I gather you're looking for people with psychopathic tendencies, that it?'

'Kinda.'

He drummed his fingers on the coffee table for a few moments, then said, 'Well, if Molly says okay, I'm willing to listen.'

'What can you tell us - off the top - about her?' Vail asked.

'Her father was an army man, sergeant as I recall. She was born out west somewhere, lived all over the world. Left home when she was fairly young. Went to college for two years. University of Colorado. Very bright woman with an extremely fragile psyche.'

'Did you ever figure out why?'

'Not really. She had suffered a nervous breakdown before she came here, which she concealed from us when she applied for the job. It came out after she'd been here about two years. She was working the night clean-up staff here and going to school in the daytime, got exhausted and almost had a relapse. Then she was arrested for shoplifting.'

'What'd she steal?'

'Something inconsequential, a cheap purse as I remember. Kleptomania is often a cry for attention.'

'And how long was she here?'

'She worked here about three years. She was in therapy for the last six months of her employment, mainly to mend a damaged ego and shaky self-image and build back her strength.'

'What's her background?'

'Well, she wasn't particularly anxious to discuss her past.'

'Isn't that why she came to you?'

'She came to me because she had to. The judge ordered her to get psychiatric help.'

'For how long?'

'Six months.'

'Did she resent these sessions with you?'

'No. She was in pain, and believe me, mental disorders are as painful as your pain would be if you broke a leg. It's not the kind of pain you can take an aspirin for or rub away, and you can't take antibiotics to cure it, but the hurt is very real to those who are suffering.'

'How did she deal with her past?'

'She didn't. I never did really connect with her. The re-experiencing process is the most painful of all. It requires the individual to deal with their darkest side, examine motives and actions they'd rather forget.'

'And Rene resisted it?'

'Wasn't really interested. I strongly suspect she was sexually abused by her father although she never admitted that. She did tell me once that her father was physically and mentally abusive, but that was as far as she took it.'

'So she was uncooperative?'

'No, she was friendly and talkative, she just didn't want to deal with the past, and six months wasn't enough time to earn her trust.'

'You liked her, then?'

'I didn't dislike her. She was a patient I saw for three hours a week. We never got beyond her shielding, which is not uncommon at all.'

'Did you ever consider her dangerous?'

'No - well, to herself, perhaps, when she first came to me. She was verging on manic-depression, there's always a danger of suicide in depression cases. But I never considered her capable of purposely hurting someone else.'

'So you feel she was cured?'

'Let's just say we stopped the problem before it got too bad. She was never an inpatient, she just met with me for three hours a week and I had her on some antidepressant medication.'

'Worked at night, you say?' asked Vail.

He nodded. 'Five nights a week for four hours and eight hours on the weekends. She was the night housekeeping staff, cleaned the offices and meeting rooms.'

'So she would have had access to keys to the offices, for clean-up purposes?' said Vail.

'Uh-huh…'

'You say she was goin''t'school. Remember what she was studyin'?'

'Data processing. The wave of the future, she called it.'

'Where was that, here in Winthrop?' Vail asked.

Salzman chuckled. 'Obviously you've never seen Winthrop. It's about the size of your hand. She commuted to Shelbyville, about fifteen miles up the Indy highway. Drove an old Pontiac Firebird.'

'Do you know where she went when she left here?'

'Sorry. We lost track of her after she left. You might check with Jean in Personnel on the off-chance somebody asked for a reference.' Molly excused herself and went into her office. They could hear her talking to someone on the phone.

'One more thing,' said St Claire to Salzman. 'Did ya ever get any indication that Rene Hutchinson might have been psychotic, or have psychotic tendencies?'

'No, but that doesn't mean she wasn't. Psychopaths are consummate liars, among other things. She was aloof and could be very guarded at times. And she had mood swings, but then, who doesn't.'

'Anything else you can think of?'

'Well, no, not really. She was excellent with young people, particularly in the eight-to-fifteen age range. They seemed to relate to her, if that means anything.'

'Did she ever mention Aaron Stampler or a fella named Vulpes? Raymond Vulpes?' St Claire asked.

'Not that I recall.'

Vail gave Salzman his card. 'If you think of anything else, would you give me a call?' he asked.

Salzman lifted his glasses, propping them on his forehead as he studied the card. 'DA, huh? What's your interest in Stampler?'

'I defended him,' said Vail. 'Before I became a prosecutor.'

'Huh,' said the psychiatrist, lowering his glasses. 'That's kind of a sticky wicket, isn't it?'

'I think you could say that,' said Vail with a smile.

'Well, tell Molly I'll see her later. Will you two be around for a while?'

'No, we'll be leaving shortly. Thanks for your help.'

'Not much help, I'm afraid, but it was nice to see you,' Salzman said, and left the office.

When Molly came back, she said, 'I have a little information for you. Jean says she got a request for a recommendation for Rene about two months after she left. It was from City General Hospital in Terre Haute. I just talked to the personnel director there. He says she worked there for four months, left around the first of the year. They've had no further contact with her.'

'So she was there at the time of the Balfour kill,' said St Claire.

'And it was just a nervous breakdown, she didn't show signs of any other mental problems?' Vail said.

'Maybe,' said St Claire, 'she was an adroit liar, as Dr Lowenstein would say.'

'You really think she was psychotic?' Molly asked.

'I'm askin' you, ma'am,' St Claire said, and smiled.

Molly lit another cigarette, considered his question carefully before she answered. 'If she was, Orin didn't detect it,' she said finally.

'Where did she come from before she worked here?' Vail asked.

'Accordin' to her record on this sheet, she came here from Regional General Hospital in Dayton, Ohio. General housekeeping,' St Claire answered, checking the computer printout. 'You also got a picture of her, if that's what this here checkmark means.'

'I'll have Jean pull it,' Molly said.

'May I show you something?' St Claire said. He led them into her office. 'Got a couple of hair pins?' he asked Molly.

She laughed. 'Afraid I don't use them.'

'How about paperclips. I need two.'

He took the two paperclips she gave him and straightened them out, then inserted them into the bookcase lock. Working with both hands, he moved the two wires around until he felt the tumblers in the lock. He twisted both clips and the door clicked open. It took about thirty seconds. He reached in, took out one of the tape boxes, and removed the tape, then put the empty box back. He turned to Molly and handed her the tape. 'When's the last time ya looked at one of these, Doctor?'

'I have no idea,' Molly answered. 'I haven't looked at them since I got my ticket. Four years, maybe longer.'

'She was workin' at night, had a key to the office, came in, popped the lock, took a tape, maybe two or three, returned them the next night. Nothin' to it. You never woulda known the dif, 'less a'course you happened to check the particular box she borrowed. That's if it was Hutchinson, a'course.'

'You think she knew how to pick a lock?'

'No big secret, ma'am. I mean, it ain't some inside cop thing. I read it in one of those books, y'know the kind? 101 Things You Always Wanted to Know How to Do But Nobody'd Tell You kinda books? Point is, she coulda got into the tapes, she was missin' for two months before she applied for work in Terre Haute, and she had mental problems. Nobody else here fits the bill except Tribble.'

They returned to the sitting room. The personnel director had sent 3x5 colour mug shots of Rene Hutchinson and Tribble to the office. Molly handed them to Vail and then turned over the photograph of Linda Balfour's body, which was lying facedown on the table. She stared down at it.

'You think a woman is capable of this?' she asked.

'Ma'am,' said St Claire, 'I think a woman can do anything a man can do but sire a child - and I ain't even too sure 'bout that any more.'

Thirty-Two

Angelica Stoddard was short and resembled her mother. She had a trim, tight body, good posture, and blue eyes so pale she almost looked blind - a striking young woman in an extra-large sweater that hung down halfway to the knees of her bleached-out jeans. She wore jogging shoes with white sweat socks that sagged over the tops and a black felt hat over ash-blonde hair. The hat was pulled down almost to her ears. She looked sombre and walked quickly with her head down. Venable fell in beside her. Angelica paid no attention at first but finally turned and looked up at Venable.

'Hi,' said Venable, 'I'm Jane Venable. I'm your mother's lawyer. Can we go somewhere and talk for a few minutes?'

'Not here,' the young woman answered in a whisper, looking around furtively.

'Anywhere you say.'

'Anywhere but here,' Angelica said.

Venable had her car drive them to a coffee shop off campus. They found a table in the back of the small cafe. Angelica ordered cappuccino and Venable had black coffee.

'Why did you come to the school?' Angelica Stoddard said. 'Why didn't you call first?'

'I tried, but I couldn't get through.'

Angelica's shoulders sagged. 'Oh, yeah, it's a hall phone,' she said, shaking her head. 'It's always busy. I'm sorry I said that, but I… I'm so embarrassed by all this. I know it's wrong, but I can't help it.'

'It's okay, Angelica. It's absolutely understandable, you don't have to apologize to me.'

'What do you want?'

'I need your help.'

'To do what?'

'I want you to come with me to see your mother.'

The young woman looked shocked. 'I can't do that,' she said urgently, but still speaking almost in a whisper. 'She absolutely forbids me to—'

'Angelica, she must put up a fight.'

'You don't know my mother. Once she makes up her mind…'

'Look, for God's sake, she's not deciding what kind of car to buy, her life is on the line here.'

'What can I do?'

'Tell her to defend herself.'

'She won't listen to me, and she won't change her mind. I know her, Ms Venable. I talked to her. They let her call me. She kept saying, "This is the only way." '

'You've got to go with me to see her and back me up.'

'She'd kill me!' Angelica said, then quickly added, 'Figuratively speaking, I mean.'

'Angelica… do they call you Angel?' The young student nodded. 'Angel, you tell her you and your dad need her. She can't just stand by and get maxed out by the state. If she'll put up a fight we can win this case. Do you want her to spend the next twenty years in state prison?'

'No! Oh no. Oh God, what's happening to us?' Angelica shook her head and started to cry.

'Trust me,' Venable said. 'Just do exactly what I tell you to do and trust me.'

Vail had secured wiretapping permits for the pay phone in the hall outside Vulpes's door and in his room. The two electronics experts in the investigative department had set up a listening and watching post in an empty loft across the street from the halfway house. One of them, Bob Morris, had graduated from electronics school and had attended the FBI academy. His partner, Reggie Solomon, was a classic nerd, who was interested only in the mysteries of electronic surveillance. A second team comprised of Randy Dobson, a young, lean detective who wore baggy khakis and an Atlanta Braves T-shirt under a leather jacket, and Kirby Grosso, a tallish, raw-boned woman wearing a jogging outfit - the two best shadows on the DA's investigative staff - was on standby in a car a block away. Grosso had a Hi8 videocamera secreted in her athletic bag so she could videotape Vulpes without being detected.

They watched Terry bring Vulpes to the halfway house and help him carry his belongings to the second-floor room. Vulpes had a large old-fashioned leather suitcase, a stereo, TV, and VCR, his tool chest and two large cardboard boxes of books and tapes. They listened on the monitor when Vulpes entered his room, and Morris, using a 500mm telephoto lens, videotaped him through the open window of the room. They heard the supervisor running down the rules and regulations, the most important of which was a 10 P.M. curfew that was strictly enforced. The supervisor, whose name was David Schmidt, had a pleasant, reassuring voice.

'You'll do just fine, Raymond,' he said as he left the room.

'Thanks,' Vulpes answered. A few moments later he appeared at the window of his room. He leaned on the sill and looked up and down the street. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of fresh air.

Actually, Vulpes was studying the terrain. He was certain the phone and his room were bugged, just as he was certain that he was being observed from somewhere in the old building across the street. Excellent. Vail had taken the bait.

Then he closed the window, pulled down the shade, and turned on his CD player. In the loft across the street, the sounds of a Judas Priest album roared into Solomon's earphones and he pulled them off.

'Well, shit,' Morris said. 'There goes our sound and picture.' He snatched up his portable phone and punched out the number of the chase car.

Grosso answered. 'Yeeees?' she said pleasantly.

'This is Bird Watch. Got Fox in his den, shades drawn, music drowning out our sound. Suggest you cover the back door.'

'Way ahead of you, Bird Watch. Got it in view.'

'See ya.'

'Over and out.'

Morris and Solomon settled back to watch and wait.

'You sure he can't see in here?' Solomon said.

'Not with his shades drawn.'

'How about when the shades are up?'

'Not unless he's Superman.'

'What are we on this guy about, anyway?'

'I dunno,' said Morris. 'All I know, Stenner said he's dangerous, whatever the hell that means.'

Vulpes stood in the middle of his room and surveyed his surroundings. It was large enough to include a bed, dresser, night table, and lamp. On the opposite side of the room was a small loveseat covered with a blanket and an easy chair with a battered coffee table between them. Against the wall was a table large enough to hold his TV. He lifted the blanket on the loveseat. Grey duct tape held a large rip together.

What the hell, he thought, it's just for the night. He kept the volume on his CD player as loud as he felt was safe. He moved the small night table to the wall beside the door. He unpacked his minicomputer, set it up on the table, and plugged it in. He went into the hall with a small tape recorder, lifted the receiver off the phone, and taped the sound as he dropped a quarter into the slot. When he got a dial tone, he dialled the Time of Day and then hung up. He went back to his room. The halfway house was almost empty, everyone was at work at that time of day. He looked at his watch.

Ten minutes. He had ten minutes. He had to take the chance.

He went back to the hall, unscrewed the cover of the phone, found the external line into the phone, and unplugged it. If the phone was tapped they wouldn't even know it was momentarily out of service. He worked quickly. He detached four coloured wires leading to the small magnet in the phone and attached one wire to the 'in' screws of the radio component he had made at Daisyland then the others to the 'out' side. The component successfully acted as a conduit between the external line and the line of the phone. He plugged the external line back in and quickly slipped the cover back and screwed it into place. He stepped back into his room and closed the door.

It had taken seven minutes.

He opened his suitcase and removed a city map from a pocket in the top of the bag and spread it out on the bed. There were four crosses marked in red on the map. He smiled and refolded the map and put it back in its pocket.

He was ready.

Stoddard looked grey, her mouth slack and her eyes swollen from lack of sleep. Her grey-black hair was straggly and had not been combed for several days. The female guard, a slender black woman with her hair pulled back and held by a barrette, led her out of the cell and towards the visitor's room.

'Listen, I heard you talking to your daughter on the phone,' the guard said. 'Sorry about that, I was standing there and couldn't help overhearing you. I heard you tell her not to come, but she's here.'

'What!'

'Ma'am, I got a daughter and a son and if I was in your shoes, they'd come whether I liked it or not. Stop here a minute.'

They stopped at the check-in desk while the guard unlocked a drawer and removed her bag.

'I got some powder and lipstick and a comb in here and a little mirror,' she said. 'Why don't you do a little repair job on your face. Make both of you feel good.'

'I don't want her to be here.'

'Well, she is, honey, so give her a break.' The guard handed her a small compact, a mirror, and a comb. Edith took them haltingly, stared in the tiny mirror, and shuddered. She started to dab her face with powder.

'Here,' the guard said, taking the compact, 'let me do that.' She started working on Stoddard's face.

'What's your name?' Stoddard asked.

'Cheryl Williams,' the guard answered: 'Used to work in a beauty parlour before I decided to become a cop.'

She powdered the pallor away, put a thin line of lipstick on Stoddard's lips, and combed her straggly hair back, then took off her own barrette and, pulling Stoddard's hair tight, slipped it on. She stepped back and admired her work.

'There,' she said. 'You put a smile on and she'll leave here a lot happier than when she came.' She held the mirror up so Stoddard could check herself out.

Stoddard smiled for the first time in days. 'Thank you,' she said.

'Sure. Tell her the food's good. They seem to worry a lot about that.'

When Edith Stoddard entered the small visitor's cell and saw Venable and Angelica, she stopped cold, her shackled arms dropping stiffly in front of her and her eyes blazing with fury.

'I told you, I didn't want her…' she started, but she didn't finish the sentence. Angelica, overwhelmed at the sight of her mother in the drab prison clothes and handcuffs, rushed to her and wrapped her arms around her.

'Oh, Mama!' she sobbed. 'I love you. Please listen to Ms Venable. We need you, Mama. I need you.' She clung to Edith Stoddard, her shoulders shaking as tears suddenly flooded her face.

Stoddard looked at Jane Venable, her face clouded with anger, but finally her eyes closed and her lips trembled and tears crept from her closed eyes.

'Oh, Angel,' she said in a shaky voice. 'I love you so much.'

'Then please, please listen to Ms Venable. Please do as she says. Please trust her.'

Stoddard pushed her daughter away and fixed a hard stare at her.

'Now, Angie, you listen to me. I know what I'm doing. You trust me.'

'I want you to come home,' the young woman sobbed.

'Well, that's not going to happen, dear. You must adjust to that. You're going to have to spend a little more time with Dad and keep his spirits up.'

Angelica suddenly pulled back from her. 'And who keeps my spirits up, Mom? You just sit here and do nothing. You let them write about you in the papers and everybody at school says you must be guilty because—'

'I am guilty, Angie. Get it through that thick little head of yours. Let me handle this.'

'Fine,' her daughter spat at her. 'Handle it, then. And the hell with the rest of us.' She whirled around and banged on the door. The guard opened it and she left the room.

Edith Stoddard sank into a chair. 'Why did you do that? What possible reason could you have for doing that to both of us?' she asked Venable.

'Edith, look at me.'

The older woman slowly raised her eyes, eyes filled with anger.

'I found the room, Edith.'

Stoddard said nothing. The expression in her eyes changed from anger to fear.

'I found the room in the closet, you know the room I'm talking about.'

Stoddard said nothing.

'How long did Delaney keep you in this kind of bondage?'

'It wasn't like that.'

'Oh, come on! I saw the handcuffs, the leather straps, the whips, the corsets, the garter belts. How long were you in sexual bondage to Delaney?'

Stoddard turned away from Venable.

'Do they have to know?'

'Who? Vail? Parver? The police? It's significant evidence in a murder investigation, I can be disbarred if I don't report it. And even if I didn't tell them, somebody's going to tumble across that closet just like I did, carpenters or painters redoing the room. How did this start, Edith? Did he make you do these things in order to keep your job?'

'They don't have to know,' she said, turning to Venable and pleading. 'They don't have to know you found out.'

'What about the gun?'

'The gun? Oh yes, the gun…'

'Would you like me to throw it in the lake? Hell, Edith, I'm your lawyer, not your accomplice.'

Stoddard slumped in her chair. 'Why didn't you mind your own business?'

'This is my business. What do you fear, Edith? Are you worried about what your husband and daughter will think? You were a bonded slave, for God's sake. You think I can't make hay out of that? We can beat this rap, Edith.'

'Never!' Edith Stoddard glared at her angrily. Venable stared back at her just as hard.

'If you think I'm going to let the state put you away for twenty years to life, you're out of your mind. I have a responsibility to you and the court.' She sat down facing Stoddard and reached for her cuffed hands, but Stoddard pulled them away. 'Edith, listen to me. Even if we don't go all the way to trial, I'll be able to bargain very strongly in your favour with this information. Martin Vail is a very smart lawyer. He'll see the possibilities, too. But I must tell them, do you understand that?'

'Not if I fire you.'

'Even if you fired me, I'd have to give up this knowledge.'

'So the whole world will know…'

'The police and the district attorney will know. And, yes, it will make the press - there will be a police report. So what do you have to lose? Let me fight the good fight, Edith. I don't want you to go to jail at all.'

Stoddard stared at her for several long moments, then said, 'You don't understand. At first it was humiliating, but then...'

'Yes?'

'But then I began to look forward to it. I wasn't a slave. I began to look forward to the times I'd go over there and he'd come out of that closet in that garter belt and hand me the handcuffs and I would hook his hands over his head to the headboard and do whatever I wanted to him.'

'You don't have to tell me this, Edith—'

'I want to tell you,' Stoddard said, cutting her off. 'Don't you understand, I haven't had sex with my husband for more than ten years. Ten years! There were no other men, I didn't cheat on him. I… I just considered… it… part of my job. One of my duties. And when it was over, I whipped him. I whipped him. "You bad boy," I'd say, and I'd take the whip and he would bend over and I would give him several hard lashes across his backside. It was like getting even for all the humiliation. You understand what I'm saying, Ms Venable? I enjoyed it. What do you think the prosecutors are going to think about that?'

'The prosecutor will never know,' Venable said emphatically. 'You don't have to tell them anything. We will bargain this out. You will never testify.'

Edith Stoddard stood slowly and walked to the door and tapped on it. Officer Williams opened it. As she left, Stoddard turned to Jane and said, 'You betrayed me, Ms Venable.'

Rudi Hines had manipulated the clean-up schedule so as to arrive at the billing office in City Hospital at five minutes to three. The billing office worked from six-thirty to two-thirty on weekends and usually everyone was out of there before three o'clock. Nobody ever worked overtime. But on this day the manager of the department, Herman Laverne, was still in the office on the phone. Hines immediately panicked but decided to go ahead with the usual procedure.

God, get out of here before three.

Laverne looked up as Hines shuffled in. Hines, wearing coveralls, was slightly built with short red hair under a Red Sox cap turned backwards. The bucket was on wheels and Hines directed it into the office with the mop. It rattled past Laverne, who cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

'I'll be outta here in a minute,' he said.

Hines nodded, went to the back of the room, and began mopping the floor, all the while watching the screen of one of the three computers in the back of the room. That particular computer had a modem and was left on all night to receive bills, order confirmations, or messages. The clock on the wall crept closer to three o'clock and Laverne was still yapping on the phone.

At exactly three o'clock, Vulpes typed FONCOM into his mini-computer and immediately got the dial tone of the hall phone. He held the tape recorder up to the small mike built into the machine and pressed play. The sound of a quarter dropping into the phone slot played into the mike and from there to the phone. In an instant he had a dial tone. He dialled 555-7478. It rang once and then the word CONNECT flashed on the screen. He typed DIRCOM into his machine and the screen went blank.

Across the street Morris heard the phone operate, heard the coin drop, and then heard the dial tone.

'He's on the horn again,' Morris said. He turned on the monitor. Solomon put the paperback novel he was reading aside. They listened to Vulpes dial. The phone rang once and as soon as it was answered, there was a hum on the line.

'What the hell's that?' Solomon said.

'Sounds like he got a bad connection.'

'Can't you do something with all that stuff you got, you know, get it on another frequency or something?'

'What do you mean, another frequency? We got a bug in the damn phone. He dialled wrong or got a bad connection.'

In his room, Vulpes began talking to the computer on the other end of the line as soon his screen went blank.

At City Hospital, Laverne was about to leave the billing office when he heard the computer beep.

'What's that?' he said, half aloud, and walked back to the computer. Rudi Hines stood back against the wall, eyes staring at the screen, terrified, squeezing the mop handle with both hands.

HYDRA, FOX IS FREE. The message appeared on the screen.

'What the hell is that?' Laverne said. 'Hydra? Fox?

Some hackers must be screwing around.' HYDRA? 'This is ridiculous.' Laverne snapped.

HYDRA?

Laverne leaned over the keyboard and typed: WHO THE HELL IS HYDRA? AND WHO ARE YOU?

In his room, Vulpes immediately typed DISCON and the program returned to READY. He sat and stared at the computer for several seconds. Someone must have come in and seen the computer screen. Vulpes would not try again. Everything was ready. If Hydra was there, the message was clear. Vulpes was free. That was the only reason for the call.

Across the street in the loft, Solomon was getting nervous.

'Why isn't he hanging up?'

'Maybe he's stupid,' Morris said.

'What's he doing, sitting over there listening to a dead line?'

'I don't know what the hell he's - '

The line suddenly went dead.

'There. Stupid schmuck finally figured it out,' Solomon said. He picked up his paperback and started reading again.

In his room, Vulpes unplugged the minicomputer, put it back in the toolbox, and returned the night table to its place. He looked at his watch.

Three-ten. Time to go.

And at the hospital Laverne muttered. 'Just some crazy kid hackers,' as he headed out the door. And to Hines: 'Be sure the door locks behind you when you finish up.'

Hines nodded and watched Laverne go. Hines sighed with relief. It was all right, Laverne was annoyed but not concerned by the message from Fox. Fox was free, that was all that mattered. The clock on the wall said 3:20.

Only six more hours.

Ten minutes later Vulpes left the halfway house. Morris dialled Grosso.

'Present,' she said.

'Fox is out of the den. Heading towards the Loop.'

'Keep me on the line,' she said.

Morris watched the corner. The grey Mustang drifted into sight, turned, and drove past the listening post. A block away Vulpes climbed the stairs to the elevated train stop.

'He's taking the el,' Grosso said a moment later on the phone. 'We're on foot. Call traffic and tell 'em not to bust our car. We'll contact Icicle as soon as he lights somewhere.'

'Rodge. Over and out,' Morris answered.

Grosso and Dobson followed Vulpes to a three-storey open-atrium mall in the downtown section. Vulpes seemed to be in no hurry. Grosso stayed half a city block behind Vulpes while Dobson tracked him from the opposite side of the atrium. Occasionally Grosso would enter a store and snoop around while Dobson kept Vulpes in view. Dobson stopped occasionally and window-shopped, watching Vulpes in the reflection of the store window. When Grosso was back on track, Dobson would enter a store. They both wore beepers and each had dialled in the other's number. If either of them lost Vulpes or got in trouble, they would simply push the send button and immediately beep the other. They were a good team: cautious, savvy, alert.

Vulpes strolled the first floor of the mall, engrossed in window-shopping, occasionally stopping and watching the shoppers. The mall was crowded. Winter sales. Vulpes went to the second floor of the mall, entered an ice cream store, and came out with a hot fudge sundae piled with whipped cream and sprinkles. He sat on a bench and ate it slowly, savouring every bite. He went to a record store and bought two CDs, then went to a men's clothing store, where he bought a black turtleneck sweater. He rented a copy of Sleepless in Seattle from the video rental store, then went to a one-dollar movie theatre in the mall and bought a ticket for Schindler's List. He got a hot dog and a Coke at one of the food counters that surrounded the entrance to the theatre and sat at a small table eating. Dobson and Grosso rendezvoused out of his line of sight.

'Shit, I saw that picture,' Dobson complained. 'It's three hours long!'

'Well, you're about to see it again,' Grosso answered. 'And don't talk about the movie while it's on. I hate people who tell me what's going to happen.'

When Vulpes finished eating, he checked his watch and went into the theatre.

'I'll get the tickets, you get the popcorn,' Grosso said.

'I'm getting the short end of the deal,' Dobson complained.

'For a change,' Grosso answered, and headed for the ticket window.

Stenner was waiting at the county airport when Vail and St Claire landed from their trip to the Justine Clinic.

'I brought Jane with me,' Stenner said, adding, almost as an apology, 'Didn't want to leave her by herself.'

'How about the house guard?' Vail asked.

Stenner looked at his watch. 'Just coming on now.'

He opened the back door of the car and Jane peered out. Vail smiled when he saw her. The tension that had ridged his face with hard lines seemed to ease a bit.

'You okay?' he asked, climbing in beside her.

'Of course. Hey, Mr DA, I wanted to come, okay?'

'I'm a little stressed out. Sorry,' he said. 'Let's swing by the office on the way home, Abel.'

She wrapped both arms around one of his arms. 'You can relax. Your bad boy is sitting in the movies as we speak.'

'The movies?'

'Our two best tails are baby-sitting through Schindler's List,' Stenner said, driving away from the airport. 'If he stays for the whole show, they'll be getting out about now.'

'And he has to be in by ten,' said Venable. 'That's a little over an hour from now.'

'What did he do before the movie?'

'Went shopping, rented a movie, ate some ice cream.'

'Him and his damn ice cream,' said Vail. 'How about phone calls?'

'Morris says nothing significant.'

'Get him on the phone,' Vail said.

'Y'know, if he is tied in with our copycat, the old Fox could be bidin' his time,' St Claire said, tapping out the number on the car phone. 'Makes us wait until we get a little lax, then hit.'

'That's why we're not going to get lax, Harve,' Vail said.

'Here's Morris,' St Claire answered, stretching the cord and handing the phone back to Vail.

'This is Martin Vail, Bobby. Who did Vulpes call?'

'Only made two calls, Mr Vail. He called and got the time and then he made a call and got a bad connection. That's it. Then he left.'

'Thanks,' Vail said with disgust, cradling the receiver. 'He only made two calls and one of them was a bad connection.'

'We drew a bad connection at Daisyland, too,' said Stenner. 'They have an enormous cleaning staff and a fairly regular turnover. Over eight hundred patients. Delivery people, visiting firemen, a constant flow of traffic. Trying to go back two years?' He shook his head. 'Impossible.'

'So the only leads we got left are Hutchinson and Tribble. Both of 'em as long as a shot gets,' St Claire grumbled.

'Flaherty ran both of them through the state payroll computer after you called,' said Stenner. 'There's no record either of them ever worked at Daisyland. St Louis isn't doing any better. Flaherty talked to his pal, Sergeant Nicholson, this afternoon. They haven't got the first clue. Not a fingerprint, no blood samples, nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything.'

'We're dealin' with a real pro here, Marty,' St Claire said.

'No, we're dealing with Stampler. He's calling every turn.'

'Maybe you're puttin' too much emphasis on Stampler,' St Claire said. 'Maybe it is just a copycat killer, saw the tapes in Arrington's office, knew how it was done, found out about the bishop's library…'

'It's Stampler,' Vail said flatly. 'I saw him, I talked to him. He's running it and he's going to keep running it.'

'So we just wait, that it?' Stenner said.

'That's it. Everybody on the staff covered?'

'Yes, sir,' said Stenner. 'They're either under surveillance or with their families. Flaherty's keeping an eye on Shana - a task he seems to be enjoying, as does she, I might add.'

'Y'know, I don't like to bring this up,' said St Claire, 'but it's gonna get right costly - all this surveillance, I mean, if we gotta keep it up for long.'

Vail glared at the back of his head.

'You got a better idea, Harve?'

'I don't even have an idea half as good.'

Grosso and Dobson sat two rows apart in the back of the theatre so they could keep Vulpes in view and get out quickly when he got up to leave. He sat through the entire picture. He stood up as the credits rolled and Grosso and Dobson slipped out.

Outside, Grosso grabbed for her cigarettes.

'Three hours without a smoke,' she said. 'I'm having a seizure. You better get lost.'

'Too late,' Dobson said. Grosso turned and was face-to-face with Vulpes. His eyes were like stones.

'Excuse me,' he said, 'can I trouble you for a light?' He put a cigarette between his lips.

'Sure.'

'Did you enjoy the film?'

'It's a great picture,' she said calmly.

He smiled. 'Thanks for the light,' he said, and walked off towards the mall exit.

'He made us,' Grosso growled to Dobson.

'How? Man, we were practically invisible.'

'I don't know how, but he made us. Not only that, but he wants us to know it. Shit, we're off the detail.'

'Well, he's probably on his way home. Let's tuck him in and let the electronics wizards take over. Stenner will decide what to do with us.'

'He's going to pull us off the case, Randy.'

'What case? Is this a case? Hell, nobody knows why we're even following this guy.'

'Stenner says he's dangerous.'

'That's it? We're following him because he's dangerous? Half the people in the city are dangerous, for Christ sakes.'

'He's spooky-looking,' Grosso said. 'Did ya see those eyes?'

'Oh, we're following him because he's spooky-looking and dangerous. I feel much better.'

On the train heading back to his room, Vulpes checked his watch. Eight-thirty. He smiled. Hydra would strike in half an hour.

The game he had been waiting ten years to play was about to begin.