The Darker Side

ROSEMARY WAKES UP AT SIX-THIRTY TO THE SHRILL BLAST OF her alarm. She considers turning it off and going back to sleep. It's Saturday, after all. The thought is seductive, but the rebuke is instant and fierce.

No, that's not how this works. Not how you work. Discipline, day in, day out, from now till death. It's the only way. So she forces herself to a sitting position, legs dangling down from the side of the bed. Her feet touch the wood floor once, tentative, curling away from the cold as a reflex. Coffee. I need coffee.

She stretches once and marvels, as she often does, that she could feel this achy and sluggish. She's only thirty-four and it's been four years since she straightened her life out.

That's the price you pay for the wages of sin.

She glances out the window of her apartment. She's living in Simi Valley, California, has been since she fled here four years ago to restart her life. It's a nice apartment, two bedrooms, decor that's comforting in its absolute lack of edginess. Beige carpets and off-white walls, wood floors in the bedroom and kitchen, she could be happy with that forever.

There's a chill in the morning air, not that common for September. She's naked, and the chill gives her goose bumps and makes her nipples hard.

She stands up and pads into the bathroom. She yelps once as she sits down on the toilet seat; it feels like ice against her ass. She pees, knees together, wipes, stands, flushes. Before leaving the bathroom, she takes stock of her body in the mirror.

Looking good, as always. Too bad that's never been a helpful thing.

Rosemary observes that her breasts are still perky, a perfect 38C. Her belly is still flat, no stretch marks or scars. Her five-five frame isn't slender, but it isn't fat either. She has muscular thighs and a firm ass. Her pubic hair is brunette, just like the waist-length hair on her head. She likes not having to shave down there anymore. Perfect body, but then, why wouldn't it be? I always aborted when I got pregnant, didn't I? Eight times, yes, sir. My uterus is so scarred now, it's doubtful I'll ever have any children. Which is probably a good thing. Kids deserve better than me.

She turns away from this thought by turning away from the mirror, and heads back into the bedroom. She grabs the necklace and hangs it around her neck; a small silver cross on a thin silver chain. She kneels down next to her bed, knees on that hard, cold wooden floor, bends her head forward, closes her eyes, and prays as she does every morning.

"God, thank you for another day of freedom from the sinful life I used to live. Thank you for giving me the force of will to stay away from the temptations and the hungers that still plague me. They're better, Lord, but they still bother me. Sometimes I think about drugs and fucking and I just want to get up and go out and score some coke and booze and suck a nice big cock. Even saying it now makes my pussy a little bit wet. But every day, with your help, I manage not to give in. I turn away from those temptations and I thank you for helping me find the strength to do that, Lord."

When she first started praying, years ago, she never used that kind of language. She used cleaner words, tried to be more pure. She found it unsatisfying. She'd talked to Father Yates about her problem in this area.

Father Yates was in his fifties, but he was pretty cool. He'd give anyone a chance-ex-hookers, recovering drug addicts-as long as he felt your intentions were genuine, he was there for you. Nothing seemed to faze him.

"Rosemary, the things you find yourself wanting to say to God-

the unclean things-tell me how you feel when they come to you."

"Like urges, Father. When I need a drink or a fuck-sorry, Father-

real bad, it's like a bunch of black waves washing over me, one right after the other. If I hold them in, the urges just get stronger. But if I talk about them, if I put words to them, I get some relief."

"Give me an example."

She'd stared at him. "You want me to say it like I think it?"

"That's right."

"I don't know, Father. I'm talking about some pretty dirty stuff here."

He'd chuckled. "Rosemary, I've heard every profane word that exists. I've heard things in confession that would curl your toes-

confessions about bestiality, the fantasies of child molesters-I promise you, I can deal with whatever you want to say."

Looking at him then, she believed what he was saying, but it was still hard. The things she felt, the words to describe those things, were secrets. There was a time when she lived those words, when she said them without a second thought. Times had changed. On the other hand. .

She could sense that there might be a certain relief to be had by putting voice to the dark things that bubbled up inside her. But, what if. .

It was the big concern, the greatest one of all, the one that keeps us from owning up to our sins.

"Father, if-if I do. ." She bit her lip, which trembled. "Do you promise to still like me afterward?"

She couldn't look at him. He grabbed her chin and forced her to raise her eyes. The kindness she saw there made her want to cry with relief.

"I promise, Rosemary. On my love of God."

She'd cried a little, and he'd waited while she did. Then she'd wiped her eyes and had started talking, telling those secrets. The words were like a flood, dark and awful, but so needing to be spoken.

"Sometimes, Father, I just want to fuck, you know? Not make out or make love or any of that stuff. I want a cock in my mouth and in my pussy and I want them there after I've swallowed a bunch of booze and snorted as much coke as I can get my hands on. I want it and even while I fight wanting it, I get turned on, and that makes the wanting even stronger, you know?

"It's always been like that. People think girls like me are victims, and some are I suppose. But I've never been able to get enough. Never. The dirtier the better. Spit on me, piss in my face, make me a fucking whore, it'll all make me come that much harder and stronger. I want it for days, I want it for weeks, I want to be fucked till I stop breathing."

The words had rushed out, uncensored, and then she'd been done. She'd snuck a glance at Father Yates, had been relieved to see no shock or judgment on his face. Perhaps even more precious, in its own way, even more important, was that she didn't see the slightest hunger there. No hint of voyeuristic thrill.

"Thank you, Rosemary. How do you feel, having said all that?"

"Better," she'd replied without hesitation. "The wanting goes away. Kind of like. ." She searched for a metaphor. "Like squeezing a big old whitehead zit. Hurts to do it, thank God when it pops, you know?"

He'd smiled and nodded. "Yes, I do." His face got serious. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Rosemary, I think saying it is better than doing it, don't you?"

She'd blinked, surprised by this concept.

Was it better? In this society, sometimes it didn't seem so. Say the words suck a cock in public, and you might as well be sucking one on an escalator, you know?

Still. . there was a big difference between talking about drinking and fucking and waking up from a blackout with a stranger's come in your ass.

"I guess so, Father. Yeah."

"Then my advice, when you pray? Say what you need to say. Don't worry. God can handle it."

It had seemed like strange advice, and to be honest, it had been hard to implement, but she got the hang of it. Some might find it blasphemous, but you know what? Fuck them and their high horses. Truth was, it worked. She talked to God without a censor, and she had almost five years on the straight and narrow as a result. She figured God knew what was up. God knew her love for Him grew every day she made it through without fucking a stranger or drinking a beer or snorting a gram.

She figured God had watched when she turned tricks at seventeen and started making porno films at eighteen. Figured he'd seen her allblack gang bang under the bright lights (Big black cocks in a tight white hole! The cover of the video had proclaimed) and her foray into dogfucking for the bestiality black market. God had seen her toward the end too. Like when she was on her knees in a hotel room that could only be described as grotesque, as some fat fuck spit on her face and called her a "meat puppet" and she smiled and agreed because she needed some money for blow and because it kind of turned her on too. God had been there the Day It All Changed, she was sure of that. She'd been lying in bed in another shitty room. She was sick with the flu, was sweating and cold, but the guy fucking her didn't care. He'd paid extra to do her without a condom, he had sores on his pecker, but she really didn't give a shit, she'd pretty much accepted that she was on her way out.

He was there above her, his tongue literally hanging out, panting like a dog, and then his face had changed. It had contorted into a look of pure hate. He'd raised a fist and started hitting her. He didn't stop until he'd broken her nose in three places, broken her jaw, knocked out a tooth or two, blacked her eyes shut, broken her left arm, and cracked a few ribs. Then he fucked her again and she passed out.

She woke up in the hospital, and Father Yates was there, sitting next to her bed. He hadn't said anything. He'd just moved closer, had taken one of her hands into his, and had looked down on her with those gentle, gentle eyes.

She'd started crying then. She cried, on and off, for days. Father Yates and others from the church stayed by her bedside until she was ready to be released. They didn't preach or judge or even say much of anything at all. They were just there for her.

She'd come to understand that God was present for the good and the bad, and it wasn't that He was cruel, but that He knew-goodness was a choice. Rightness was a choice. Free will was the road to salvation, and God wasn't going to make you do the right thing. God's job was to be there if you chose Him, there if you didn't. Father Yates and the church had helped her get onto her feet. Helped her clean up, find an apartment and a job. Were there for her in the beginning when she strayed, twice.

She remembers all of these things now, as she often does, and adds some final words to her prayer.

"Thank you God, for helping me, and for listening to my bad fucking mouth and my dirty thoughts, and for letting me say what I need to say so I can stay on the path. Amen."

Dirty words and evil thoughts were her secret things, and you can't stay clean with secrets so God let her spew her bile and never blinked, however raunchy things got.

She stands up and goes to shower. No work today, but discipline was the key to her life now. Waking every day at the same time, not letting herself sleep in or be slothful. Sunday through Friday she ran a mile. Saturday she let herself off on the running, but she still got up, showered, had her coffee, and then went to the church to volunteer. All of which, she reflects, helps keep the real secret, the true dirtiness inside her, at bay. That one terrible thing when she'd-

A knock at the door startles her from this thought. She frowns. Who the hell is that?

She grabs a bathrobe and checks her face in the mirror, chastising herself immediately for this vanity, knowing that this is one habit she'll never break.

She opens the door without peeking through the peephole. It's Saturday morning, and this is Simi Valley, after all. One of the safest cities in the nation.

The man has a gun and a smile. He levels the gun at her face and walks forward, causing her to backpedal.

"Scream and I'll shoot you dead," he observes, calm, cool, collected. He closes the door to the apartment.

"Who the fuck are you?" she asks, voice trembling. He puts a finger to his lips.

"Shhhhhh. . I have something for you, Rosemary."

He reaches into a jacket pocket and lifts out a bag. She recognizes it right away, of course.

Cocaine, sweet, beautiful, delicious cocaine.

"It's okay, Rosemary. God will forgive you for this, so long as you give yourself up to Him before I kill you. Remember: God is love."

She feels the old familiar demon rise inside her, even now, even after all these years, even with a gun in her face. She feels the truth that she so often reflects upon: she was a Jezebel born, not made. Dear God, I'm scared, I'm so fucking scared, but even so, I want that coke so fucking bad, and (she can't be dishonest talking to God, not now not ever) it won't really be my fault because he's making me do it so that's kind of a relief because it sort of lets me off the hook, you know? Forgive me for that.

On the heels of this, puzzlement:

How does he know I'm a coke addict?

She struggles to remember if she'd seen his face at her Narcotics Anonymous meeting, or at her church.

No, she thinks. I would have remembered those eyes. Those awful eyes.

"Come now, Rosemary," the man says, his voice almost gentle.

"We have work to do."

Does it matter, Lord? Does it matter that I never would have done this coke by myself? Even though I really want what he's giving me, doesn't it make a difference that I didn't go looking for it?

Rosemary had always felt the presence of God while praying, but never His voice. This time was no different. God didn't speak to her, but, as always, God was there.

He was there when she snorted the coke at gunpoint, He was even there when the end came, with all its darkness.

God never spoke, but He was there, and it was enough. She knew He heard her last thought, her final revelation.

Yeah, it does. It does make a difference. In fact, it makes THE difference. Our Father, who art in heaven, God oh my God, I love you so. She would have died smiling if she hadn't been in so much pain.

11

IT'S A LITTLE PAST NOON AND I AM ON THE PHONE WITH AD Jones.

"Similar crime?" he asks. "Here?"

He doesn't groan, but I know he wants to because I feel the same way.

A killer who hops municipalities is a whole new monster. A man dedicated to his craft, a traveler, spreading the wreckage of his acts across multiple jurisdictions. It creates problems. Locals who don't want us playing in their sandbox. The potential for incompetence on the part of forensics or pathology increases by virtue of increasing the per capita of law-enforcement involvement. Not to mention the simple truth that some victims will fall through the cracks. VICAP, the Violent Crime Apprehension Program, which provides a national database of cross-referenced violent acts, is a voluntary program. Unless a local homicide cop decides to enter the crime into VICAP, it's not there to search for and find in the database.

"It's a headache," I agree.

"What do you want to do?"

I think about it. The truth is, I'm tired, my team is tired, and there's no way we'll be able to keep up our current pace for very long. But. .

The time he's most likely to err is in the commission of the crime itself. The longer he has to cool down, the more opportunity he has to cover his tracks, and worse, to refine his technique. The first murder, in most cases, is the sloppiest. But this isn't his first now, is it? Maybe not even his tenth or his hundredth.

I sigh. "We'll continue blitzing it for now, sir. I'll fly back and check out the Sonnenfeld murder. The rest of my team will stay here."

"What's the division of labor?"

"Callie and James are processing Lisa's apartment personally. Alan is coordinating with the locals on the Ambrose scene."

"Is he really needed there?"

I consider this. "Probably not. I was going to have him do the passenger interviews, but the locals could do that. I'm sure Virginia forensics will pass muster and, besides, I think Ambrose was a throwaway."

"Big assumption."

"If Lisa wasn't random-and I feel strongly that she wasn't-then Ambrose was a means to an end, not the reason why." I sigh. "He was incidental. He's not going to give me any real insight."

"Then take Alan with you. Have him turn over the Ambrose scene and the passenger interviews to the locals." A pause. "I want you to have a partner with you when possible, Smoky. This guy seems to be pretty intent on getting law enforcement involved. That means he's going to be watching."

I'd already thought of this, but having AD Jones say it out loud sends a small icy shiver down my spine. On at least three occasions now the men I hunt have taken a personal interest in me and my team, and while we're all still alive, we've never walked away from those encounters unscathed.

"Roger that, sir."

"Keep me briefed."

He hangs up without saying good-bye. I dial Alan.

"Let me guess," he says without preamble. "We're going back to LA."

"How telepathic of you."

"Nah. If you hadn't asked me to come I would have insisted."

"I'll come pick you up," I say. " 'Bye."

I've been standing outside of Lisa's apartment to make these calls. I poke my head in.

"Callie!"

She walks out of Lisa's bedroom, digital camera held in gloved hands.

"What is it, honey-love?"

I explain about Rosemary Sonnenfeld. She raises an eyebrow.

"Busy boy."

"Yes. Alan and I are going to fly home and check that out. I need you and James to continue here. Collect everything you can find. When you're done, call for the plane and bring it all back with you."

"Do we get to sleep after?"

"If not, I'll buy the donuts."

Callie is addicted to miniature chocolate donuts. Loves them, really. It's a passionate affair.

"A fair trade," she says. "I accept."

"See you soon."

"Oh, and, Smoky? Say hi to my man if you see him. Tell him I expect sex when I return. Lots of it."

"I'm sure he'll be pleased to hear it."

She tosses her hair and smiles. "I just want to give him adequate time to prepare for the coming storm."

ALAN AND I ARE SITTING in the car waiting for the jet to arrive. He glances at his watch.

"We should get there by about six o'clock. I already talked to the Simi Valley cops and let them know we're coming. Some guy by the name of Atkins is the primary on the case."

"Where are they at with it?"

"All the forensic work is done, including the autopsy. They don't have any leads."

"Have they released the apartment yet?"

"Yeah."

"Damn."

I won't get the same opportunity I had with Lisa Reid.

"What do you want to do?"

"Let's meet with Atkins, find out everything we can about Rosemary Sonnenfeld, who she was and how she died. See if it takes us anywhere."

"Think it will?"

I glance at my friend and shrug.

"It will take us somewhere. Hopefully that's somewhere helpful."

He stares off and nods. I wonder if he hears it like I do, the hum ming in the stillness. Three newly dead, and more in the oven. My stomach is sour with worry and dismay, and I feel like cicadas are buzzing through my veins.

"ARE YOU COMING HOME TONIGHT?"

We're mid-flight and I'm on the plane's phone with Bonnie.

"I hope so, sweetheart. I miss you."

"I miss you too, but I'm okay. If you need to work, I won't mind."

"Thanks, babe. But I'm really going to try."

A pause.

"Smoky?"

"Yes?"

"I know you're busy, but I want you to make some time to talk with me about something soon."

My antennae go up. I can't remember Bonnie ever making a request like this. All kinds of things run through my head, good, bad, and banal. Mostly bad. I keep my voice calm.

"What's up, sweetheart?"

Another long pause, also uncharacteristic.

"Well, I've been thinking. You know I love Elaina. And I really did need to be homeschooled while I got better, but. ."

"But?" I coax her.

She sighs, and it makes my heart hitch a bit. It's the sound of a little girl carrying a big weight. "Well, I think it's time for me to go to a normal school. You know, with other kids and stuff."

Now it's my turn to pause.

"Hm," I manage.

"I'm not asking you to decide right now, Momma-Smoky. I just wanted you to know. That I want to talk about it."

I clear my throat and force myself to sound reassuring and understanding.

"Sure, honey. Of course."

"Okay. Thanks." She sounds relieved.

Too relieved. What's she so worried about? Me? If so, not good. I continue with the whole reassuring and understanding thing, in spite of my inner turmoil. Some things you never forget how to do as a parent. Calm and smiling while it storms inside, no problem, like riding a bike.

"I'll talk to you later, babe. Too much."

"Way too much," she replies.

We spend a lot of time together, but we also spend a lot of time apart by virtue of what I do. We've developed an emotional shorthand that works wonders for us. "Too much" is one of our phrases, the answer to the unspoken question, "how much do I love you?" It was super sappy and absolutely appropriate. God, I love this girl.

" 'Bye, sweetheart," I murmur.

" 'Bye."

I hang up and stare out the small window, watching the clouds go by. I search for a level place inside myself, but I'm having trouble. Fear is my oldest friend and he's taken advantage of my unease to cuddle up close.

"Something wrong?" Alan asks, startling me from my reverie. I shrug. "Bonnie. She wants to talk about going to public school."

He raises both eyebrows in surprise.

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow."

"Scares you, huh?"

His eyes are gentle, patient, kind. Alan knows me pretty well, and a lot of that is because I trust him so much.

I sigh. "It terrifies me. I mean, I understand. She's twelve. I knew I couldn't keep her inside a cocoon forever. But it scares me to think about her. . out there. "

He nods. "Understandable. She's been treated rough. So have you."

"That's the problem. Every parent worries about sending their child out into the world. But not every parent has seen what I have. The possibilities aren't just theoretical for me."

"Yeah." He is silent for a moment. "I love Bonnie, Smoky, you know that. Truth is, the idea scares me too. Not just for her-though that's the biggest part of it, of course-but also for Elaina, and for you. Bonnie is your second chance at being a mom, and probably Elaina's only chance to experience a little of what that's like. You and Elaina are the most important women in my life, and if something happened to Bonnie. . I don't know. I don't think either of you would make it back from that."

He smiles, rueful. "But on the other hand, I'm happy about it. Because it means that that little girl really is okay." He looks at me, his gaze intense. "You understand? She's not afraid to venture out into the world again. That's progress, Smoky. It means we've done good by her. And that's pretty cool."

I smile at my friend. He hasn't taken away my fear, but he has tempered it, a little. Because what he's said is true. Bonnie was almost lost to the world after a visit from a monster. Her soul had been flickering out there on the edge of forever, a tiny candle in a rainstorm. The essence of her had nearly been snuffed out.

Now she was telling me that she was strong enough to want to start building a life with more than just me in it. It was terrifying, it might even make me a little bit jealous, but yes, it was also pretty cool.

"Thanks, Alan. That helps."

"No problem. Just don't expect me to be all wise and understanding when she starts dating."

I grin at him. "Dating? There will be no dating going on."

He grins back.

"Amen to that."

12

SIMI VALLEY, LIKE MUCH OF VENTURA COUNTY, IS MUCH NICER than LA proper. It's younger, smaller, and safer. The 118 freeway connects Simi and the San Fernando Valley, but the drive between the two takes you through undeveloped country, rolling hills and minimountains. The easternmost side of Simi Valley is older, with homes that date back to the sixties. As in all things USA, the more west you go, the newer things are.

This is what California used to be, I think. Clean air, unending sun in the spring and summer, a horizon you could still see. Simi is a fair-sized city, but it lacks the congestion and traffic snarl that has been a staple of Los Angeles for many moons.

Traffic is annoying but not crippling and we arrive at the police station around 7:00 P.M.

"That must be Atkins," Alan says.

I see a middle-aged man with a receding brunet hairline in the parking lot of the station, leaning up against his car. He's wearing a charcoal gray suit, not off the rack but not Armani either. He spots us and comes up to greet us as we park.

"You must be Agent Washington," Atkins says to Alan, putting out his hand with a smile. "No offense, but you're pretty hard to miss."

"I get that a lot."

"I'll bet." Atkins turns to me. "And you're Agent Barrett."

His eyes dance over my scars, something I'm long used to by now. I don't mind certain subsets of the population examining my face. Homicide cops like Atkins, for example. His interest is genuine and quizzical. He looks, shrugs inside, and lets it go, no disgust or horror evident. Most physicians do the same. Small children run the gamut from "is that your real face?" to, in the case of nine-year-old boys,

"wow, cool!"

"Thanks for meeting us this late," I say, shaking the hand he's offered.

"Hey, anything that will help me crack this case." His eyes go flat, expressionless. "This one bothers me."

He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't have to. You see a lot of dead people, doing what we do. None of it is good, but some of the corpses become ghosts.

"Tell us about it," Alan says.

Atkins inclines his head. "I can tell you about her death, and I will, but first I thought I'd take you to see a man who can tell you about her life."

"Who?" I ask.

"Father Yates. Catholic priest in the Valley who almost literally pulled Rosemary out of the gutter."

Alan looks at me and raises an inquiring eyebrow.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," I quip, using humor to push aside my exhaustion. I gesture to Atkins's car. "You drive. You can fill us in on the way there."

IT OCCURS TO ME THAT American carmakers are unlikely to go out of business as long as police forces exist. The car is a fixed-up Crown Vic, no longer black and white, just black and sleek with a growl under the hood. It's dark out now, the moon is up, and we're headed back down the 118 freeway again. It's rush-hour light at the moment; there are other cars around us, but the distance and speed are companionable. The sky is cloudless and the moon is full. Silver, not yellow. It makes some of the rocky hills in the distance look like they have snow on top.

I'm in the front seat with Atkins, Alan is in the back.

"Rosemary Sonnenfeld. Single white female, age thirty-four, fivefive, approx. one hundred twenty-five pounds, in good physical shape. She was found dead in her apartment with a bag of coke on the nightstand next to her. On first glance the thought was that Rosemary had reverted to type. She was an ex-prostitute, ex-porn girl, ex-coke and sex addict. I thought she'd probably decided to get high and maybe was a little out of practice on her coke usage and overdosed."

"Makes sense," Alan says. "What changed your mind?"

"A closer look. Tox screen showed she had enough coke in her system to kill a horse, but she'd also been stabbed in the side."

"Interesting," I allow, not yet willing to give up data on Lisa Reid.

"Yeah. Then, of course, there was the cross. Silver cross, about two inches high and one inch wide. Engraved with a skull and crossbones and the number one forty-two on the back. It had been inserted into her."

The same as Lisa Reid, I think. And one forty-two? Lisa was one forty- three.

"If all that wasn't enough to call it a homicide," Atkins continues,

"the icing on the cake is that the cross was inserted postmortem."

"Yeah, that's pretty definitive," Alan says.

"Then there's Father Yates."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Yates is a priest who does a lot of good, but he's no fool. He made Rosemary do a piss test once a month at a local clinic."

"Really?" I ask, surprised. "Sounds like a pretty distrustful priest."

Atkins smiles. "Father Yates is a realist. He's a true believer, and he does good work. But he has a three strikes rule. If he takes you in and helps you get clean, you get three relapses and then you're gone."

"So I take it Rosemary had stayed clean."

"For over four years. I checked her record. Nothing during that time. She'd held a steady job, she volunteered at the church every weekend. Everything says that she really had gone on the straight and narrow."

"I can see why this one got to you," I say.

Most people think that cops are cynics. There is truth to that stereotype. We see the worst that people can do or be. It makes us. . attentive. But we're people too. Most of those I've known in law enforcement, however hardened they may be, still harbor a willingness to believe that someone could-maybe-turn their life around. A bad guy or girl could-maybe-wake up one day and decide to become a good guy or girl. It's just that-a maybe-but it never really goes away. No one can live with the idea that man is basically evil and stay happy.

"Yeah," Atkins says. "Anyway. It was a homicide, but everything dead-ended. Forensics came up with nada. We couldn't find any past known associates that were still alive. Ten days later, no viable suspects." He shakes his head in frustration. "I've been doing this for a while, Agent Barrett. I know when a case is going to go cold. This had that feel to it-until Agent Washington called me."

"Was there any evidence of sexual violation? Any ejaculate near the body?"

"No."

"How was her body positioned? Were her legs together or apart?"

"Together. Arms folded over her chest."

"Interesting," I murmur.

"What?" Atkins asks.

"Our other victim was a transsexual. Rosemary was an ex-porn actress and sex addict. Based on our victims, I would have expected a sexual component to these crimes, but it's been absent both times. The only commonality we know of is the cross. Strange."

"What's it mean?" Alan asks, prodding me.

I shake my head. "I don't know yet. Let's see what the priest can tell us."

"ROSEMARY WAS ONE OF MY favorite successes. One Rosemary could make up for ten failures. You understand?"

Father Yates is a very fit fiftyish. He has rough-hewn, handsome features, close-cropped salt and pepper hair, and dark, intelligent eyes. They are what I used to call "priest eyes" to my friends. Too full of kindness to get self-righteous with, too full of an understanding of the ways of sin to hide anything from. I grew up Catholic, though I am long lapsed, and I recognize the type of priest Yates is: hands-on, approachable, devout without being out of touch with the realities of life.

Perhaps if more priests were like him, I wouldn't have lapsed. He's a tall man, about six foot five, thin without being gangly. He wears a short-sleeve shirt with the white collar at the throat. His hands are restless. This is an energetic priest, a man of action. Working for God, to him, means working for God. I like him.

"I do understand, Father. We enjoy similar victories, sometimes, and they make up for the failures. Mostly."

Those priest eyes fix on mine and I feel the old, familiar flush of guilt. He knows, he knows. He knows I masturbate sometimes with the help of a vibrator. He knows I take a secret pleasure at making a man come with my mouth.

Sweet Jesus-and there's another one, blasphemy-I thought I was past all this!

I know, at some level, that it's all in my head. Father Yates is no mind reader. I even recognize the phenomenon; put a civilian in an interrogation room with me, and he'll feel exactly the same way.

"Yes," he replies, nodding. "I imagine there are a lot of parallels in what we do."

"I'll bet," I agree. "We both know about the dark side of people. You've probably heard about most of the crimes I've seen."

He waves a hand. "I've heard everything in confession. Pedophilia. Incest. Rape. Murder. The difference, I suppose, is in our methods."

"I jail them, you try and set them free."

It comes out sounding a little bit sarcastic. I hadn't intended it to. He gives a faint, amused smile. "And which do you think is more effective?"

I spread my hands. "They can find God in prison too, Father. But at least in prison, they can't hurt anyone else."

He chuckles. "Fair enough, Agent Barrett. I won't press the point. I believe the truth of a person can be found in their actions. It may not be the party line for the church at the moment, but I care more about how you live your life than about how often you receive Communion." His expression becomes more grave. "I'm familiar with your story, and with some of the men you've put away. You're a force for good, I think."

I laugh. I don't take offense at his use of a caveat; I can tell that he's teasing me.

"I appreciate that, Father."

Alan and Atkins are sitting a few pews back. They're keeping quiet, remaining unobtrusive. This is an interview, not an interrogation. Intimacy is all.

"Tell me about Rosemary," I prod.

"I've been the pastor here at the Redeemer for twenty years, Agent Barrett. As I think you know, Los Angeles is a temperamental city, full of contrasts. Within the surrounding five blocks you will find upstanding, middle class families, teenage prostitutes, honor roll students, gang members-all sharing the same pavement."

"Yes."

"When I was called by God, I always knew that He would want me to be a hands-on priest. My gifts don't lie in giving a Mass. I do the job, but I'm not a tremendous public speaker. God knew that what I had to offer was an ability to witness the evil in others without losing faith in the possibility of redemption." He smiles a wry smile. "He knew, of course, that I was also blessed with a big mouth and a questioning mind. Don't misunderstand, I stand behind my church with all my heart, but I lack political dexterity. If I think an ecclesiastical law should be reviewed, I'll say so."

"I understand," I reply, amused.

It's interesting to me to find that even within the confines of the church, there is a divide between the "suits" and the men on the ground, between the officers and the sergeants.

"I was relegated to this tiny church because they had to put me somewhere. They knew it would be wrong to cloister me away-the church is not always blind, in spite of what some think-but they didn't want me in the limelight either." He grins and I can almost see him twenty years ago, vibrant, a rebel. "I was overjoyed. This was, and has always been, where I wanted to be."

A question occurs to me. "Father, if I can ask-what did you do before the priesthood?"

He nods in approval. "Very germane, Agent Barrett. Before I was a priest, I was a troubled young man. I spent time in reform school for petty theft, I had careless affairs with women, I drank, and I engaged in casual violence."

He says it all with such ease, without the slightest hint of shame. Not proud of his past, but not apologizing for it either.

"What changed?" I ask.

"I met a very tough old priest by the name of Father Montgomery. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and set me straight. He impressed me. Here was a man of God-a profession I'd always considered for suckers-who didn't blink at the sight of blood, or turn up his nose at a young girl who came in to pray wearing her leather mini skirt and platform shoes. He'd give her Communion even though he knew she was going to walk out the door and sell her body afterward. He had a saying: 'Leave your knives at the door, and you're welcome here.' "

"Where was this?"

"Detroit." He shrugs. "He turned me around. I got the calling, and as I said, I knew that God wanted me to emulate Father Montgomery. Which I have tried to do."

"Rosemary," I prod again.

"Rosemary was a very troubled young woman. Her story wasn't exactly original. A difficult teen, she ended up doing drugs and selling her body. What made Rosemary different, more complex, was the component of addiction. She truly enjoyed the combination of drug use and depraved sex. I don't mean that she thought it was right or good. But it gave her great pleasure. She sought it out. Rosemary was not the innocent victim of a smooth-talking pimp. She had no family history of abuse." He shakes his head, remembering something. "She told me once, she was 'just born bad.' I was alerted to her arrival in the ER by a nurse who is a member of my congregation. That nurse's words, essentially: 'This girl has hit rock bottom, Father. She will either turn around or she will die.' "

"Had she? Hit rock bottom?"

"Oh yes. She had been beaten nearly to death by a john while she was high on cocaine, and she had chlamydia, syphilis, and gonorrhea raging through her-along with a touch of the flu."

"Wow."

"Yes. She'd escaped HIV infection, thank God, and the syphilis was recent. The Holy Spirit must have been watching over Rosemary."

I think this is debatable, but I keep it to myself.

"Go on, please, Father."

"I was there when she woke up. She couldn't stop crying. I asked her the question I always ask: Are you ready for my help? Rosemary said that she was. I arranged a place for her to stay, members of the church helped her get clean, we prayed together." His eyes get sad.

"We prayed together a lot." He looks at me. "This was the thing about Rosemary that you have to understand to really care about her, Agent Barrett. Not every detail of her recovery, not even every detail of her sins. But that somehow, from somewhere, this hopeless girl found inside herself a tremendous strength. It never got easier for her. She told me she still thought about drugs and sex almost every day. The longing grew more distant, but it never disappeared. Still, she held on." He clenches his hands in frustration. "She had been living in God's grace for five years. No drugs, no reversions to former behaviors. I hate to use the word, but it applies here-Rosemary had been saved."

"I see." I am not convinced, but I'm willing to accept the possibility that Rosemary's change had taken. Father Yates is not operating with blinders on, after all.

"There was also the fact that. ." He hesitates.

"What?"

"I take confession, of course. I can never tell you what she said, but I can tell you this: She trusted me with the worst parts of herself. She held nothing back."

I am intrigued. Way more than curious. But I know this man will never give up Rosemary's confidence. I find an unexpected comfort in this certainty.

The roots of the Catholic tree run deep, I muse.

"Is there anything else you can tell me, Father? Anything you think might help?"

"I'm sorry, Agent Barrett. I'm afraid the only thing I can really provide is a memory of Rosemary at her worst and her best."

I reach into my purse, pull out my card, and give it to him.

"Call me if you think of anything, Father."

"I promise." His gaze lingers on mine for a moment. "And what do you think about prayer, Agent Barrett?"

I stare at him, caught by surprise. "Personally, I've found it to be overrated and the results underwhelming."

The words snap out, uncensored. I regret their vehemence. I shrug in apology.

"Sorry."

"Not at all. If you're mad at God, that means you still believe He exists. I'll take that for now."

I don't know what to say to this, so I just mumble, "Thank you, Father," like a six-year-old and head toward the front doors of the church. Alan and Atkins follow.

Damn those priest eyes. Sometimes the holy really do annoy me.

13

IT'S AFTER EIGHT-THIRTY. ALAN, ATKINS, AND I ARE SEATED in a booth at the back of a Denny's. It's a slow night and our waitress is tired. She manages a halfhearted smile as she tops off our coffee cups but doesn't try to chat us up. I guess she's used to serving cops. Vinyl and formica as far as the eye can see, I muse. Is there anything more American?

Atkins has given us a copy of the case file, replete with crime scene photos. Now that our waitress is at a safe distance, I open it up and examine the photographs.

"Ugly," I observe.

"But neat," Atkins replies.

It's an insightful comment. He's right. I'm looking at a photo graph of Rosemary. She had been a pretty woman. In the photograph she is nude, lying on her back on her bed. Her legs are closed. Her arms rest on her chest. Her head is thrown back and her eyes are opened wide. A line of dried blood runs from her right nostril at an angle, following her cheek to her jawline. It's a terrible image, but not as terrible as it could be. There's no evidence of sexual abuse. Other than the blood from her nose and the puncture and bruise on her right side, Rosemary's body is almost pristine.

"No rage here," Alan says.

"Yes," I reply.

Sexual psychopathy is not an act of simple anger. It is an act of violent, mind-bending rage. Penetration is not enough; it's destruction that is required. I don't see any of that in these photographs. Sex doesn't seem to be the motive. I close the file and take a sip from my coffee cup.

"The Crime Scene Unit found nada," Atkins says.

"I'm not surprised," I tell him. "This perp is very organized and very experienced. He had a job to do and he did it, no muss no fuss. He got in and got out. You always see less transference in those circumstances."

"Then how do you catch him?"

Sometimes you don't, the cicadas buzz.

"By figuring out why he does what he does. And by hoping, as time goes on, that he'll slip up and leave us a clue."

"That's not real comforting."

I give him my bleakest smile. "We don't do comforting in this line of work, Atkins. You know that."

He returns the smile, just as bleak, and raises his coffee cup in agreement.

ALAN AND I ARE ON the highway again, headed home. Alan is driving. We had left Atkins with promises, but not much reassurance.

"You want me to take you by my place to get Bonnie?" he asks. I look at my watch. It's almost ten-thirty.

"No. Drop me off at home. I'll come get her tomorrow."

I consider dialing Callie and James, but realize it's after 1:00 A.M. where they are. If they are asleep-and I hope they are-I don't want to wake them.

"Been a pretty crazy few days," Alan says.

"Sure has."

He glances at me. "Any insight to offer yet?"

I shake my head. "Not really. I need to get some sleep and let it percolate. There are things that bother me a lot about this one, though."

"Like?"

"Like I think this perp has been killing for a long time, and I think he's gotten pretty good at it. I think he's methodical and organized and that he's not going to slip up any time soon."

"He's already slipped up. He let us know he's there."

"True, but that was purposeful. We're still playing catch-up."

Alan smiles a faint smile. "You always start out cynical on a case. We still end up getting our guy when it's all over."

"Then, by that logic, let me stay pessimistic for now."

He laughs. My cell phone rings. My heart lifts a little when I see who it is.

Tommy Aguilera has been my boyfriend for a little over two years. Tommy is an ex-Secret Service agent who now does private security and investigation work. I had met him when he was still in the Service. He'd been assigned to guard someone who turned out to be a serial killer. Tommy had found it necessary to shoot the young man at one point and in the ensuing firestorm, my testimony kept him from being hung out to dry. He'd been very grateful and had told me to let him know if I ever needed anything.

He left the Service a few years later. I still don't know why. He would probably tell me if I asked, but I have never asked, and he has never offered. It's not that Tommy's cold, he's just laconic in extremis. I had taken him up on his offer of help during a case. He'd come over to my home to sweep for bugs (which he found, along with a GPS tracker on my car). It wasn't planned, but I ended up kissing him, and he'd surprised me by kissing me back.

My husband had only been dead for six months, my body was scarred, I felt ugly inside and out, and I hurt. Tommy took me in his arms and made me feel desirable again. This was satisfying on levels both spiritual and venal. Tommy is a lovely man; he's also a hunk and a half.

He's Latin, with the requisite dark hair, tan skin, and brooding eyes. He is not a pretty boy; he has a scar at his left temple and a strong jawline. He has the rough hands of a construction worker and the body of a dancer. Tommy is a delicious sight when his clothes are off, and sex with him can be rough or gentle or languorous; he's a sweaty joy beneath the sheets.

"Hey," I answer.

"Hey," he replies. "You still out of town?"

"Nope. I'm heading home right now, as a matter of fact."

"Want company?"

"Yes, please. Are you up for giving me a foot massage? I need to unwind a little."

"Sure. See you soon."

I hang up and find myself humming a little. I stop, mortified, and sneak a glance at Alan. It looks like he has all his attention on the road, but then he speaks.

"That guy seems to make you happy."

"He's okay," I say.

"Hm."

I look at my friend. "What, 'hm'?"

"It's not my business, Smoky, but you might want to consider taking the qualification off that. You deserve to be happy, and he probably deserves to know that he makes you feel that way."

I am surprised at the sudden surge of annoyance running through me. I feel a retort ready to trip off my tongue, but I manage to choke it back.

"I'll take it under advisement," I mumble.

"Hey." It's a soft rebuke, like a friendly hand under the chin lifting my reluctant gaze to his. "I'm just talking here. I like seeing you smile over a guy again, that's all."

The annoyance vanishes. I sigh.

"Me too, I think."

14

I TURN THE KNOB AND OPEN THE DOOR AND FIND WHAT I'D expected: the stillness and quiet of an empty house. This is the home that Matt and I bought together. It is the home where I learned about being a wife, a mother, and where all of that was lost to me. This is the home where I was destroyed and where I rebuilt myself again. Three years have passed since my Matt and my Alexa died. I no longer wake up screaming, I no longer stare at my gun in the middle of the night wondering if it would hurt when the bullet took the top of my head off, I no longer walk through my life with my soul in a deep freeze. I have Bonnie now, and Tommy, and of course I have my team. I have learned to start enjoying life again. The cynic in me hesitates to say that life is good, but I am allowed to say that life is better. Even so. . loss can come at oblique angles. It is the contrasts that still have power.

Matt was a perfect fit for me, for us, for the way our life was. It wasn't unusual for me to arrive home at nine o'clock in the evening, soul-tired and smelling of the dead. I'd hesitate before opening the door then too. I'd stop, key in the lock, and I'd try to shake off the dark stuff, to make sure I didn't drag it into the light and love of my home. It didn't always work, but I always tried. I'd open the door and all the lights would be on because Matt liked light. He'd usually have the TV going or maybe the stereo because he was comforted by the background noise. The smell of something yummy would be in the air. Matt was a fabulous cook. If there was a cookbook for it, he could make it happen. He'd always come to greet me when I got home. This is something that never changed, not after years and years and years of marriage. It didn't matter if we were fighting or loving each other. Welcome back, traveler, he'd always say. That was our phrase, as necessary and natural as the sun or the rain. In the days before Alexa was born, he'd feed me some good food and maybe a small glass of wine and he'd listen to me bitch and moan about my day and then I'd listen to him bitch and moan about his and we might watch some TV together. We'd usually end up having sex before falling asleep. We had a lot of sex in those early times. Good sex, okay sex, even some bad sex (though, as Matt pointed out, there was really no such thing as a bad orgasm).

As the marriage progressed, the frequency of the sex changed, but the great thing about being married to Matt was that the marriage progressed, it never wore on. We stopped being novelties to each other, but we never really lost our wonder.

Alexa was born and that added a new dimension to coming home. When she was younger, I came to her. As she grew older, she came to me. She picked up her father's phrase, and I would hear it in stereo sometimes.

Welcome back, traveler, kick off your boots, the weather outside may be fair to partly crappy, but in here it's all sun all the time. The cliche becomes a cliche because it was true enough to be repeated often enough: there's a difference between a house and a home.

Things are not the same now. When I walk in, the lights are off. The place is a little bit chilly. No food smells dancing around. No TV

noises, no stereo playing.

The other thing missing is the plants. Matt maintained a small indoor jungle. Me? I am death on plants. I don't just kill them, they commit suicide in my presence. They slash their little planty wrists the moment they find themselves under my care.

Welcome back, traveler.

But it's not the same.

I remember what Rosario said to me in the car, about this place being where I had my roots, and I wonder at the truth of that. I've moved on, but will I ever really let go of the past, living in this home?

I close the door behind me and move through the living room and into the kitchen, flipping on lights and the TV as I pass. A news anchor chatters away and fills the emptiness a little. I pop some macaroni and cheese into the microwave. This is another difficult area for me-I can't cook. I could burn water.

I pour myself a glass of wine and grab my mac and cheese when it's done and I take them with me to the couch. Matt always insisted we eat at the dinner table like a civilized family. Then change it, dummy. You have Bonnie now. You have Tommy. Start eating at the dinner table. Hell, put the TV on a timer if you like so you have some noise to come home to.

My spirits lift a little. Pragmatism has always been my strength. I like to fix things when they break. Crying in my beer (or wine, as the case may be) goes against my grain. I've spent more than enough time weeping in the last few years. Less tears, more sweat. Giddyup. Good idea, Mrs. Barrett, I say to myself. Hear, hear. I giggle at this internal interchange. I no longer worry about being crazy because of it. I figure this either means I've changed for the better or really have gone crazy. I watch the news as I polish off the pseudo-food. Nothing new; civilization continues to teeter on the precipice, as it has been doing since the reporting of news began. There's no mention of Lisa Reid yet.

When the knock comes, a tingly little happiness jolts through me. I dump the empty macaroni and cheese container into the trash and find myself hurrying to the door.

I open it and smile at the man in my life. He's wearing a dark jacket and slacks, and a white shirt with no tie. His hair is a little rumpled, but he looks, as always, like a very edible million bucks.

"Hey," he says, one word suffused with warmth and backed with a big smile. He's as happy to see me as I am to see him. I angle my head up for a kiss and he gives me a long one.

"Welcome back, traveler," I murmur.

He raises an eyebrow. "I think I should be telling you that." He smiles. He comes in and flops down on the couch. "You've been a busy lady."

I sit down next to him and put my feet on his lap. It's an unspoken demand for a massage. Tommy complies, and I almost arch my back as those strong hands begin rubbing the tension away.

"Yeah," I reply. "Too bad you can't get frequent flier miles on a private jet. Jesus, that feels good."

"You want to talk about it?"

It occurs to me that this is one of the big differences between the relationship I have with Tommy and the one I had with Matt. I didn't talk with Matt about my cases, not often. I kept that out of my home, away from him and Alexa. Tommy is different. He understands death and murder, and, like me, he's killed people. I can talk with him about my work and it won't damage him, because, well, that damage has already been done.

"Sure," I say, "as long as you don't stop giving me those foot orgasms."

I give him a lengthy recap of the last day and a half. He listens, nodding at spots, without ever once missing a beat on the massage.

"Wow," he says when I'm done. "Complicated."

"No kidding." I count off on my fingers. "Let's see: I have the transsexual daughter of a congressman-said congressman also happens to be a favored presidential hopeful-murdered mid-flight, pulling me and my team out of our usual jurisdiction and onto a political minefield. I have a born-again ex-addict-hooker-porn girl killed back here. Both of them had crosses stuffed into their bodies by the killer, and the numbers on the crosses are in the one hundreds-

which, by the way, I don't think is symbolic at all. I have no leads to speak of yet. In the middle of it all, Callie is getting married, and James dropped the bombshell that he's gay." I run a hand through my hair. "Craziness." I force a smile. "At least it's not boring."

He smiles back but it's a smile with a quality to it that I can't quite place. His massage of my feet has become automatic, almost absentminded. Nervous, I realize. Mr. Stoic is nervous.

I pull my feet away. "Something you want to tell me?"

Silence. He leans back, looks at the ceiling and sighs. "Yeah."

"Well? You're starting to give me the jitters."

He gives me a very, very speculative gaze. It does nothing to alleviate my nervousness.

"You know that I have a little integrity problem, right?" he asks.

"Is that a joke? You're a total Boy Scout. You don't even curse."

"Yeah, well. That's what I'm talking about. I understand compromise, okay? It's a part of living, and it's for sure a part of living with someone. My problem is, when it comes to integrity, I can't compromise. Not even a little, not ever. It's created real problems for me in the past. There were times in the Service when people wanted me to see a little more gray, a little less black and white."

"I'm sure, but I think that's a good quality."

He smiles and shakes his head. "We'll see about that. I realized a few days ago that there's something I need to say to you. That I have to say to you. It might not be the best time to say it, compromise might be the better part of valor, and so on, but-" He shrugs. "It's a point of integrity."

My stomach is a gold-medal gymnast, flip flip flip flip flip.

"What I said earlier? About making me nervous?" I punch his arm.

"We're heading toward terrified here."

"Then I'll just say it." He takes a deep breath and looks me right in the eyes. "I'm in love with you, Smoky. I told you a couple years back that I knew it would happen, and that I'd let you know when it did. Well, it has. I've fallen in love with you. The moment I was sure, I realized I had to tell you." Another shrug, a little weaker this time. "One of those integrity things."

I am speechless.

He loves me.

Wow.

He loves me?

Say something, stupid. But try not to say something stupid. I clear my throat. It comes out in a stammer. "I–I-wow, I'm not sure what to say."

I regret these words the moment they come out. This man, this wonderful man, has just said that he loves me, and that's the best I can do?

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Tommy. I'm sorry. That was lame as lame can be."

He amazes me by smiling.

"Relax. I'm smart enough to understand that you need some time to process this. I'm not insecure enough to need an answer right away. I just had to tell you, had to cross that bridge and burn it behind me. It was time."

I look at him and take care to choose the words I'll say next, because I know what I say next is very, very important. I opt in the end for good old-fashioned bare naked honesty. I grab his hands in mine. I want the contact.

"I do need time. I wish I didn't, but I do. That doesn't mean I'm saying I don't feel the same way. It just means. ." I search for the words that fit what I'm feeling. "I'm scared."

He brings my hands up to his mouth. He gives each one a soft kiss, two benedictions. His eyes are full of a gentle compassion that I've never really seen in him before. I have seen kind Tommy, angry Tommy, thoughtful Tommy, deadly Tommy. This is a new Tommy; understanding and empathy without the sometimes saccharine falseness of sympathy. Ahh, I realize, this is loving Tommy.

"You loved one man, Smoky. You met Matt when you were both still teenagers, and you knew he was the one. You never doubted it, you never wondered about it, you never longed for something else. You lost him because of a tragedy, not by choice. It makes sense that this would knock you for a loop. I can understand you not having an answer right now. I just need you to think about it and figure out what the answer is."

The words, their compassion, their complete lack of agenda, are a punch to the gut. They squeeze the breath out of me. A lone tear rolls down the unscarred side of my face. Tommy reaches out a thumb and wipes it away as gently as he can.

"Don't cry, baby."

He's never called me that before, baby, never used such a personal term of endearment, and it undoes me for reasons I can't quite grasp. I have no idea why. I move into his arms and bawl my eyes out against his chest. It's not a bad grief, there's no despair in it. It's a thunderstorm that's rolled in, clouds that have to cry. I pound against his rocks for a few moments, he takes it, the tears eventually stop and turn into sniffles, he is quiet and strokes my hair. It occurs to me that I could stay right here forever, if this moment was all he wanted from me.

But there's the rub. He doesn't just want this, he wants everything. I pull away from him, and wipe my cheeks with the palms of my hands.

"Where does that leave us in the meantime?" My voice is husky from the tears.

His eyes are a little bit sad. "We need to spend some time apart. You need to process this and I need to not sleep with you until you do."

"What? Why?"

It's the question of a child. The truth is, I know why.

"I can't sleep with a woman after I've told her that I love her until I know she feels the same way. It's not a punishment or an ultimatum, Smoky. I just can't be with someone who feels less for me than I feel for her."

I stare at him for a long time and then I sigh. "Yeah. I couldn't be with you either, if the shoe was on the other foot."

He leans forward and he takes my face in his hands. They are strong hands, rough hands, soft in places, callused in others. He brings his lips to mine and the kiss is perfection. Deep, passionate, Casablanca all the way. It leaves me breathless and teary-eyed again. He stands up.

"You know where to find me."

"Hey, Tommy," I call after him as he walks toward the door. "That integrity thing? You're right, it's a real pisser."

No reply.

"Tommy?"

He stops, turns his head to look at me.

"Yeah?"

I manage a smile.

"I still think it's a good quality."

He returns the smile, tips an imaginary hat with his fingers, and then he's gone.

I am left alone again with all my contrasts. They're like bats that chuckle as they tangle in my hair. I pull my knees up to my chin and wrap my arms around my shins. I rock back and forth.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck." The tears are coming again, hot galloping horses behind my eyes. And me without any ice cream.

Hey, that inner voice says, a little sly. You still got some Jose Cuervo hidden away in the upper kitchen cabinet. I ignore myself and stick with my most faithful friend: the good cry. AMA-After Matt and Alexa-I've spent a lot of time with my good buddy grief. We hang out together for a few minutes, a worthy jag, and then I send him on his way.

I lean back on the couch and stare at the ceiling while I sniffle. I feel drained and miserable.

What is your problem, anyway? Tommy's a good man. No, scratch that-Tommy is a great man. He's honest, he's loyal, he's sexy as hell, he loves you. Like you have so many other choices?

But it's not about Tommy, I know this. It's not about the present. It's about the past.

Sure, there was a time when the idea of being with another man felt like a betrayal of Matt. Matt's ghost used to be everywhere; here in the living room, standing in the kitchen, lying in bed next to me. But Matt's just a lovely memory now, not a phantom.

Besides, I know Matt would want me to be happy again. So? Then what?

Well, there is Bonnie. .

I shake my head.

No. Don't you put it on her.

One of the last holdouts of Bonnie's childhood is her penchant for Saturday morning cartoons. She never misses them and when Tommy is here, he gets up and they watch them together. I don't share their love of early mornings, but I have stumbled down the stairs toward the coffeepot on a number of occasions to find them laughing together as horrible things happen to Wile E. Coyote. I don't know if I would call it a father/daughter bond that they have, not yet, but Bonnie cares for Tommy, and she knows that he cares for her.

The truth is, I realize, I can't pin this terror on anyone but myself. So why?

A word bubbles up from the darker parts of me, like brimstone from a crack in the earth.

Punishment.

I turn the word over in the mouth of my mind, tasting its bitterness and wondering at the slight hint of terror it seems to bring. Punishment? For what?

You know what. For that unforgivable thing you did after Matt and Alexa died. That thing that no one knows about, not even Callie. I clap my hands together. The sound is startling in this quiet house. A rifle crack. I do it again. Crack!

We're not thinking about that right now! Not now, maybe not ever. NO way.

Inner me pauses. I sense sadness now, not slyness. Well, fine. But it's why you're afraid to love him: you don't think you have the right to love anybody.

I have no reply to this; none is needed. Truth tends to get the last word.

I stand up and head for the kitchen. I need a distraction, now now now. Jose Cuervo will do just fine, thank you.

I grab the bottle from its hiding place in the upper cabinet and I pour myself a shot. I lift the glass in an angry toast.

"To the truth that the truth doesn't always set you free."

The tequila goes down like the paint stripper that it is. The heat blossoms in my belly and brings a rush of focus and contentment with it. I put the bottle back and clean the shotglass, making sure to leave no trace of this little secret. I'm too disciplined to be a drunk, but I only drink tequila in such moments of weakness. This never fails to deliver a prick of shame and a need to conceal. The bitterness, that jittery taste of terror and dismay, has not been so much expunged as blurred. Its sharp edges are now covered in foam rubber and that'll work for now.

"For my next trick," I mutter, padding back to the living room, "I will turn to my most long-term and beloved addiction."

Work.

Work, work, sweet glorious work. One of the fine things about having a job with real purpose is that you can use it to replace yourself when you need to. That cicada buzz can be seductive as well as stressful.

I grab the yellow legal pad and pen from the coffee table. I keep this pad there for one of my own rituals. Late at night (like now) when I am alone, I curl my feet under me and try to bring order to the jumble of data in whatever case I'm working on. It helps me focus and has led to any number of useful epiphanies over the years. It's also a pretty good talisman. Scratching away on that yellow pad helps beat back thoughts I don't want around.

There are certain axioms I've developed over the years about homicides. Pragmatisms. Insights. I concentrate on these and jot them down to get the wheels turning in their grooves and dispel Tommy and the ghosts he brings.

The Victim is always everything. Even when the murder is a random event, remember: the thing we choose on the spur of the moment can be the most revealing.

A killer once told me he chose his strangling victims by watching for the first woman who made eye contact with him. I pointed out that, somehow, these first women were always blonde. He thought about this, laughed, and admitted that his mother had been a blonde. ("Mom was a real cunt," he had added without prompting.) Method tells us what drives him, or what he wants us to think drives him.

Another killer I caught beat his victims until they had no face. He had been driven by a hatred so intense that it could actually induce a minor fugue state. "A couple times," he'd told me, "I remember starting to hit a whore, but I don't remember nothing else till it was over. Which is a real shame. 'Cause honestly, that's the best part." He really had been regretful about it.

Insanity is not the same as stupidity.

The truth is, they're all crazy in their own way, but some of them are also brilliant.

Sex as a component, or the lack thereof, is key when considering motive.

This last one gets me thinking.

Both victims we know of-Lisa Reid and Rosemary Sonnenfeld-

were murdered but not sexually abused. Lisa was a pre-op transsexual, which in itself points toward a sexual component. Rosemary's past points to sex as well, and yet he didn't abuse her. I chew on the pen, thinking about this. I come to the same conclusion as I had earlier. It's not about sex for him.

This is rare. It's almost always about sex.

Not this time.

Okay, then what's it about? Victims are everything. What are the commonalities?

Both victims were women.

I scratch that out. Lisa Reid was not a woman. The distinction might be unfair to her, but it would have been significant to the killer. This is not a commonality.

Look for similarities in method then.

Both victims were killed in the same way. A sharp object was thrust into their right side and angled up and into the heart. Both victims had a cross placed inside the resulting wound. I consider the cross. After sex and general insanity, religious mania plays a big part in serial homicides. Only parents get hung with more blame than God. Satanic elements are a popular choice, but there are plenty of instances where the killer felt that he was saving his victims, that he was working for the man upstairs, not the one in the nether-basement.

Is that the deal here? Is he saving his victims from something?

I doodle on the pad:

What do you save someone from?

One answer:

The consequences of their actions.

From a religious standpoint, you save them from damnation. Yeah.

What damns someone?

I rattle my brain, trying to jar loose old memories of catechism. Something about mortal sins, venial sins. .

I take my notepad with me as I pad up the stairs and into my oftused home office. I sit down in front of my computer and open the browser to a search engine.

In the search field I type: mortal sin defined. The first choice is Mortal Sin-definition

"Ask and ye shall receive," I mutter. I click the link. The American Heritage Dictionary definition of mortal sin appears: A sin, such as murder or blasphemy, that is so heinous it deprives the soul of sanctifying grace and causes damnation if unpardoned at the time of death.

There is a treatise farther down on the page that relates to Aquinas.

A mortal sin destroys the grace of God in the heart of the sinner. In order for a sin to be mortal, it must meet three conditions: A. Sin must be of a grave matter.

B. Sin is committed with the full knowledge of the sinner. C. Sin is committed with the full and deliberate consent of the sinner.

Thus a mortal sin cannot be committed by accident, as two of the qualifying components are knowledge and consent. In other words, the sinner knows what he or she is doing is an offense against God, but does so anyway, and with premeditation. The sinner is aware that he is rejecting God's law and love.

In Galatians 5:19–21, St. Paul gives a list of grave sins: "Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are these; adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness, idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, variance, em- ulations, wrath, strife, seditions, heresies, envyings, murders, drunken- ness, revellings, and such like: of the which I tell you before, as I have also told you in time past, that they which do such things shall not in- herit the kingdom of God."

And in 1 Corinthians 6:9-10: Paul also tells the Corinthians,

"know you not that the unjust shall not possess the kingdom of God?

Do not err: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor the ef- feminate, nor liers with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunk- ards nor railers, nor extortioners shall possess the kingdom of God."

It continues in this vein. I go back and click some of the other links the search engine gave me. I'm not surprised to find that the specifics of what constitutes a mortal sin is a widely debated subject. The Catholic Church has views and definitions that are distinct from Protestants. Orthodox churches in places such as Eastern Europe have different views than those in the west. Strict traditionalists classify the so-called Seven Deadly Sins as mortal, while others dispute this.

There are definite points of agreement. Everyone allows that murder is pretty bad. Homosexuality is universally considered to be a quick ticket into hellfire.

"Sorry, James," I murmur. "No one likes a godless sodomite."

The most general consensus, from what I can see, is: you know it is a grave sin, you know it denies God's love and law, and you do it anyway. If you don't take responsibility for that mortal sin prior to death, you're fucked. Get ready to burn like an indestructible marshmallow over an eternal campfire.

I lean back in the chair and consult my notepad again. Okay, let's roll with this. So. . if he's saving them from damnation then-what? He gets them to confess before he kills them?

The other and obvious possibility occurs to me.

Maybe he is not saving them. Maybe he is damning them. If he's aware of something they've done, something he considered a mortal sin, and he kills them before they have the opportunity to repent, then, within his paradigm, he'd be sending them straight to hell.

Why would he want to do that? I doubt it's based on a personal connection with the victims, so direct revenge is out. It would have a broader base. Vengeance in absentia? Sending a message?

Will of God?

"Are you saving them, or damning them? Do you care about their souls?" I toss the pad down on the desk in frustration. "Do I have any idea if I'm even on the right track?"

I think about this. Yeah, I do. It's not something I can prove, it is something that I feel. This is the way it goes.

He is not killing them for sexual gratification. He is killing them because their deaths matter in a religious sense, and sin is the hub of the wheel on which all religion turns.

I grab the notepad back and return to the living room. I stare at it as I think and I begin to write again.

He asked us a question: "What do I collect? That's the question, and that's the key."

I'm pretty sure I know the answer, or at least the answer for now, based on the information I have and what my gut is saying. Sins. He collects sins. That's the victimology. That's the commonality. Not hair color or boob size or maybe even gender. His victims are sinners (or he thinks they are). This feels right. It resonates. The tuning fork inside me quivers, telling me that I've hit the right note.

One question, though, remains.

Does he think he's sending sinners to their just rewards, or the redeemed to sit at the hand of God?

The next question comes without my wanting it to, a return of the yammering I've been trying to quash.

What about your sin? Does it qualify as mortal?

Oh yeah. You bet. Good thing I don't believe in heaven or hell. Right?

Silence to that, blessed silence.

"Praise God," I mutter, with all the sarcasm and bitterness I can muster.

God does not reply, as is His wont.

A wave of exhaustion hits me like a truck, so fast and heavy that my eyelids close of their own accord. I let the notepad slip from my fingers and curl up on the couch as sleep drags me down into darkness.

15

THE PHONE WAKES ME UP AND I WAKE UP HARD. I FEEL hungover, though it's not a result of last night's alcohol. This is about my age. In my early twenties I could pull an all-nighter or two, sleep for one night and wake up refreshed. Now it can take me days to bounce back. The crick in my neck tells me that sleeping on the couch hadn't helped.

I pull myself to a sitting position and groan. Last night I was lonely. Right now I'm just glad that no one is here to witness this. I push away the fog through sheer force of will and answer.

"Barrett," I croak.

"You sound chipper, honey-love."

"What time is it?"

"Eight-thirty A.M."

"What? Dammit."

I stand up and rush to the kitchen while I hold the phone against my ear. I forgot to set the timer for the coffee last night, so I hit the button now and wait for the blessed brown nectar to start flowing. I have the patience of a junkie when it comes to getting my first cup of coffee in the morning. Bonnie always wakes up before me and knows this; she starts pouring a cup for me the moment she hears my feet hit the stairs.

"Lazy, lazy," Callie teases. "Up too late having various forms of acrobatic sex?"

She means well, but the question brings back memories of last night.

"No."

The terseness of my answer makes her pause.

"Hmmmm. . is that bark of a no due to a lack of caffeine or problems on the home front?"

"Both, but I don't want to talk about it right now. What's up?

Where are you?"

"Nearer than you think."

A knock at my front door.

"Little pig, little pig, let me in."

I groan again. I don't feel like dealing with Callie-or anyone else-

this morning.

"Hang on." I sigh.

WE ARE SEATED AT MY dining table. I'm about halfway through my coffee and life seems a little more hopeful.

Callie sits across from me enjoying her own cup. I study her and marvel, as always, at her ability to look good in any situation. I'm the one who got some sleep last night and I'm sitting here in rumpled clothes and hurricane hair. Callie looks like she just came from a day at the spa.

She reaches into her jacket pocket and pops a pain pill. This brings me back to reality. I sip at my coffee and examine her eyes. It's well hidden, but the exhaustion is there, swimming in the shallows, visible in just the right light.

"Is grumpy-bunny feeling better?" Callie asks.

"A little. When did you get in?"

"Damien and I arrived about two hours ago. We'll be using the lab facilities at the Bureau to examine our little treasure trove of evidence." She raises her cup in a mock toast. "And I'll be able to get my wedding back on the rails."

I raise an eyebrow. "Is it off them?"

"Nothing disastrous, but it's possible that Kirby needs a little more. . oversight."

"What happened?" I have a vision of Callie's florist waking to Kirby sitting in a chair next to his bed, twirling a stiletto.

"There were some problems with the cake. Kirby lobbied on my behalf a little too enthusiastically. She didn't actually do anything, but she showed too much of her true face."

"Ah," I say.

Kirby's true face is terrifying. She's all happy-go-lucky and charming until she decides to let the humanity drain away from her eyes. Then you feel like you're in a staring contest with a very hungry leopard.

"They were going to return my deposit, but Sam charmed them again. The point being, when the cat's away, the assassin will play."

She puts the cup down and leans forward. "Now, tell me what happened with Tommy."

I consider telling Callie to mind her own business but realize this would be futile. Laughable, really.

"He told me he loved me."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Callie leans back in her chair. Her mood is introspective.

"Well," she says, after a moment. "I can see why that would be difficult for you."

This is the other face of Callie and one of the reasons she is my friend. She is quick with the quip and irreverent as hell, but she also knows when it's time to be serious.

"The thing is, I don't know why it's so difficult. But it is."

This is only a partial lie.

"Is it about Matt? Because you know, Smoky, Matt would have zero difficulty with you and Tommy."

Callie knew Matt and loved him. She would invite herself to dinner a lot. She couldn't get enough of Matt's tacos.

"I know. That's the thing, I really do know that. I'm in a good place when it comes to Matt and Alexa, as good as I'll ever get. I remember them now and I'm glad to. It doesn't kill me anymore."

Her voice is gentle. "It's time to move on, Smoky."

I examine my friend. Callie has been there with me through everything. She doesn't know the one secret, the one I've kept for myself, but she knows all the rest.

"Can I ask you something, Callie?"

"Of course."

"Why are you getting married? I mean, I know why people get married-but what changed? You've always been a lone wolf."

She runs a burgundy-painted fingernail around the rim of her coffee cup.

"A lonely wolf, not a lone wolf. There is a difference. And I needed to be sure, very, very sure. Wolves mate for life, you know."

"And are you? Sure?"

Her gaze at me is almost wary. Callie is one of the most private people I know. If there is anyone that she trusts with her inner self-

other than Sam-it is me, but she doesn't often throw caution to the wind, even so.

"Yes. I'm sure."

Then she smiles and it catches me by surprise. I realize that for Callie, this-being sure-has made her happy. Callie was never what I would call depressed, but there is a difference between contentment and joy. This is joy.

"Feels good, huh?"

"Yes it does."

She puts the smile away and retreats back behind that familiar wall of mischievous irony.

"Now," she says. "You and I will never be Sex and the City girls, so let's change the subject and get to work."

I tip my cup to her. "I'll drink to that."

16

"WHY DON'T THEY EVER REPLACE OUR CARPETS?" ALAN grouses as we head down the hallway to our offices.

"Because no one is allowed up here that the Bureau is trying to impress," I reply. Callie and I had run into Alan on the elevator.

"If that's true," she says, "then the carpets can stay. I prefer them to the media."

The truth is, there's nothing much wrong with the carpeting. It's a thin tight weave, built for heavy traffic, a little worn but more than serviceable. But we'd had to pass through reception on the way to the elevators, and Alan had noticed they were replacing the marble backdrop behind the large reception desk for the second time in five years.

"Be fair, Alan," I say. "The last time they had to fix the lobby was because of us."

Two years ago a man burst into reception and lobbed a few grenades. He followed this up with automatic-weapons fire before making his escape. He had been connected to a man that we were hunting, so it was kind of our fault.

"Yeah, yeah. But look." He points to a small stain with a hint of outrage. "New marble down there, but I have to see that stain every time I walk to my office for the last four years. It's not right."

"I didn't know you were such a priss," Callie teases. We take the final left to get to our offices, known within the building as "Death Central."

The current title for my position is NCAVC coordinator. NCAVC

stands for the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. It's headquartered in DC. Each Bureau office has a person in charge of NCAVC activities for that geographical area. Death's representative, so to speak. In Podunk that might be a single agent who also carries numerous other responsibilities. Here in Los Angeles we rate a fulltime coordinator-in-charge-me-and a multi-agent team. I guess serial killers are like the rest of us: they enjoy the sunny California climate.

"Speaking of not being let up here," Alan remarks. Kirby is standing outside the door to the offices, twirling a lock of blonde hair around a finger. Her eyes light up as she sees us.

"Hey, guys! How's it going? How was it out East? Too cold for this girl, I can tell you that. I need to know I can have beer on the beach when I want it, you know? Anyway, I have to confer with Callie-babe about some wedding stuff."

This is how Kirby talks, like a runaway freight train without a care in the world.

"How'd you get up here, anyway?" Alan asks.

"Hey, I have my ways, remember?" She winks at him and makes to give him a friendly punch, but he puts up a hand in protest. "Don't need another bruise there, Kirby."

She's only five-seven but her "playful punch" apparently packs a wallop. She grins at him.

"Don't be a wuss. But okay, because your wife makes a heck of a cupcake. I had a few yesterday and-"

"What?!" Callie cries.

"Relax, Callie-babe, they were just the test run. I didn't down any of the chosen ones."

"Hm," Callie says. "And stop calling me that."

She's wasting her breath. Kirby will call her that and "Red Sonja"

and whatever else she feels like. She's just not afraid of Callie. Or anyone else, for that matter.

"Hey, sorry about the cake guy." She rolls her eyes. "Who knew that an accidental flash of my weapon would make him so jittery?"

"Accidental, huh?" Alan asks. The disbelief in his voice is stark and mirrors my own.

"Hey," she says, reproachful, "I'm not a barbarian." She smiles till she dimples. "I just know how to hold a negotiating position."

He smirks. "Is that what they're calling it now?"

Kirby's fist shoots out and lands a pretty good one on Alan's biceps. He winces and rubs it as he glowers at her.

"Men are such babies." She turns her attention to Callie. "So the reason I'm here. The tailor wanted to charge us an extra five hundred dollars because of the color changes on the bridesmaid dresses. I told him that just didn't seem fair, but he wasn't budging, so then I told him I would really appreciate it if he'd learn some better manners, and you know what? He agreed." She smiles like a child who's just handed you an A+ report card.

"Just like that?" Callie asks.

"Well, no, that's the abridged version, but I think the details of diplomacy are pretty boring, don't you? As long as no one's killing each other or going to jail, mission accomplished, I always say."

Callie decides to let it go. "What else?"

"The florist is cute. I mean super cute. I've been curling his toes for the last few nights-and he's been curling mine too, let me tell you. Anyway, point is-he's giving us a deeper discount now. I don't want to brag or anything, but"-she bumps her hip into mine-"I'm pretty sure it's because of the deep discount I've been giving him." She giggles, almost girlish. "Deep discount. Get it?"

Alan groans. I shake my head and smile. Callie takes it in stride; the pragmatism of a bride to be.

"Slut it up if it will save me another few hundred dollars," she chirps. "Anything else?"

"Nope."

"Thanks for the update. Keep me apprised, please."

"Yep." She turns away and heads back down the hall.

"Oh, and, Kirby?" Callie calls after her. "Keep the gun out of sight for any expense under a thousand dollars."

"You got it, Callie-babe."

Alan shakes his head. "Doesn't it bother you that she's fucking your florist for a discount?"

Callie reaches up and pats him on the cheek. "Alan. Flowers are expensive."

"NICE OF EVERYONE TO SHOW up."

James is glaring at us all in disapproval.

"Don't get your pink panties in a twist," Callie replies, breezing past him. "I got as much sleep as you did. Besides, it's Smoky's fault."

"And?" he challenges Alan. "What's your excuse?"

"Same answer as always: none of your business."

"I imagine the AD is going to be calling soon," I say, interrupting this friendly chatter, "so let's have a meeting in five minutes."

James glowers, but shuts up. I head to my office. Death Central is really just two big rooms. The largest is a wide open space where James, Callie, and Alan have their desks. I rate a small office with a door. The arrangements are spartan but functional. I sit down in my chair and dial Bonnie's cell phone number.

"Hi, Smoky!"

Bonnie's voice gives me the lift I had searched for last night in work and a tequila bottle. She sounds so happy to hear from me, her pleasure is so genuine and unconditional. Men can come and go, but your child is forever.

"Hi, honey. How are you?"

"Pretty good. Elaina and I are about to start my math lesson. Bo-ring."

"Hey, no dissing the three R's."

I can almost hear her eyes rolling at my attempt to speak the lingo. Dissing, indeed.

"Are you going to come and get me today? I want to see you. Besides, we're supposed to try that steak recipe thingie."

Bonnie and I made a pact a few months ago. We agreed that the microwave, while wondrous, was a limited tool when it comes to food. We decided we would take a night a week-it didn't matter which one-and try to actually cook something. I purchased a bunch of cookbooks and we've had a good time filling the house with smoke and the smell of burning meat. We've even managed to create something edible a few times. "I'll get the steaks before I come and pick you up, sweetheart."

"Cool."

"Back to math, honey. I'll see you this evening."

A noisy sigh. I am heartened by it, as I am by any sign of normal behavior in Bonnie. When she's an official teen and starts to talk back to me, I'll probably rejoice.

"Okay. 'Bye."

I consider giving Tommy a quick call, but decide against it. I want to talk to him just a little too much right now. I leave my office and head into the main room. We have a large dry-erase board that we use when we're brainstorming. I uncap a marker while the others look on.

"First let's go over what we know," I say. "We know we have two victims: Lisa Reid and Rosemary Sonnenfeld." I write their names on the board. "We know that they are in different geographical areas."

"Means he travels," Alan says. "Question is, why?"

James nods. "Right. Does he travel because he likes to spread his destruction over a wide area, or because he followed his victims there?"

"I think it's the latter," I say. I tell them about my theory, the sin collector.

"Creepy," Callie offers. "But interesting."

"Strip away the non-commonalities," I say. "One was a woman, one was a man transitioning into a woman. Lisa Reid was the daughter of a wealthy, connected family, while Rosemary was an ex-prostitute exdrug addict. Rosemary was a blonde, Lisa was a brunette. The only things they had in common were manner of death, and, perhaps, things from their past."

"Explain that again?" James asks.

"Lisa's diary. She mentions some big secret, is about to reveal what it was, and then the pages are torn out. He leaves his little message. We already know that Rosemary led a questionable life before her conversion."

"You're saying the only thing they have in common is that they were sinners?" Alan asks.

"Well, that narrows the victim pool," Callie mutters.

"What about forensics?"

"I have bupkes at the moment. We have a bag of trace we vacuumed up from the plane. We have the bloody cushions, but I imagine all the blood will turn out to be Lisa's. We have smudges but no prints from the armrests. Perhaps the trace will show something, but. ."

"Probably not," I say. "He's older and he's practiced. I don't see him making stupid mistakes."

"I'm going to have the cross analyzed," she continues. "Metallurgy is virtually untraceable, but it is our most direct connection to the perp."

She's right. The cross is his symbol. It's important to him. When we touch it, we are touching him.

"Good. What else?"

"You know," James muses, "going with the religious motivation-

which I agree with, for now-there's another 'known' that's very significant. The manner of death."

"Stuck in the side," Alan offers.

"Stuck in the right side," James corrects. "From a religious perspective, that's relevant."

I stare at him in sudden understanding. I wonder why I hadn't thought of it myself.

"The lance, Longinus," I say.

"Very good," James replies.

"Sorry," Callie says, "but you've lost me. Can you explain it for the heathens in the room?"

"Longinus was the Roman soldier who pierced Christ's side with a lance to make sure he was dead," James explains.

" 'But one of the soldiers pierced his side with a lance, and immediately there came out blood and water,' " Alan intones. I look at him and raise an eyebrow.

He grins. "Sunday school, Baptist-style. My friends and I liked Revelation and the story of the crucifixion the best. Dramatic and bloody."

"Kind of missing the deeper meaning," I say.

"I was ten. Sue me."

"Yes, yes, yes," James continues, impatient. "The point is, it's generally agreed that Longinus pierced the right side of Christ with the lance."

"Just like our victims," Callie observes.

"The biggest question remains," he continues. "Why is he killing them?"

"Easy," Alan offers. "Because they're sinners."

James shakes his head. "But they're not if they confessed. Which, per the debrief you gave us on your interview with Father Yates, Rosemary did."

"Whoa," I say. "Lot of assumptions there. Maybe he just thinks Rosemary was a sinner because she used to be a hooker. Lisa Reid was changing her sex, which I'm pretty sure is a universal abomination."

"True," James says, "but that doesn't fit with his methodology. If he's outraged by their actions, why is there so little violence? The killings are neat, functional, and symbolic. They lack passion."

"No torture either," Callie muses. "It's almost as if the victims were necessary more than anything else. Props in the play."

The lack of anger continues to resonate. Sex crimes violate the victim; our victims were not violated. Rosemary was posed, but not in a degrading way. The fact of their deaths were more important to him than anything else.

"So," James says, "different victim types, not sexually motivated, religious theme, what does that tell us?"

"If it's not about sex," I muse, "then it's either about revenge or sending a message. He's either getting back at someone, or he's telling us something by killing them."

"It's not revenge," James says. He delivers it as a flat statement of fact.

"I agree," I say. "There'd be more anger."

"So what's he telling us?" Alan asks.

"I don't know. Something important to him, though. Did anything else come up on the VICAP search for similar crimes, Alan?"

"No."

Callie whistles. "Wow. We're nowhere."

I scowl at her. "Very helpful."

"I call it as I see it."

My frustration is not caused by Callie so much as the truth of what she's saying. And its consequences.

"You know he's already picked his next victim," James remarks, reading my mind. "Maybe the one after that."

I give him a sour look.

"You and Callie should hit the forensic bricks."

"And us? Or me?" Alan asks.

"I need to fill in AD Jones and do a follow-up call to Rosario Reid. After that you and I are going back to see Father Yates. I want to interview anyone and everyone that knew Rosemary and had anything to do with her in the last few years."

He gives an approving nod. "Good detective finds his own leads."

"That old chestnut," Callie says with faux scorn. "You two have fun. Damien and I are going to the lab."

"Stop calling me that, you drug addict," James says. It's hard to tell with James. Is he poking fun at Callie? Or really trying to skewer her?

Callie takes it in stride.

"Touche, Priscilla. Now get those ruby slippers in gear and let's go to work."

They head out the door insulting each other.

"He seems to be adjusting to Callie harassing him about being gay," Alan observes.

"I think he'd be more disturbed if she didn't. This way he knows she really couldn't care less. Besides, he knows she'd never do it around anyone but us."

"Yeah. You going to run those other errands?"

"Give me fifteen minutes and I'll meet you in the lobby."

17

"NOTHING'S HIT THE NEWS YET ON LISA REID," AD JONES tells me.

"I'm impressed. Even without the fact of her being a congressman's kid, murder mid-flight should have gotten someone's attention."

"Director Rathbun knows how to handle the press. It won't last forever, though. Where are we at?"

I fill him in on everything that's happened since we last spoke, including the various theories that we're batting around.

"What's your feeling on this?" he asks me when I'm done. AD Jones got where he is by working his way up the ranks. He's done the work, put in the time. He'll never be a "suit." When he asks a question like this, he asks it because he respects my views and he wants the unvarnished truth.

"I think we're going to hit a dead end very soon unless we find a new lead or. ."

"He kills someone else," AD Jones finishes for me. There it is again, that pause in the earth's rotation. The killer is out there, and he's hunting. Maybe a woman died last night while I was sleeping. Maybe a woman died this morning while I drank my coffee and joked with Callie.

I force these thoughts from my head.

"Yes, sir. This is a very methodical individual. He's confident and a risk taker, but he's not crazy. He's not fighting sexual urges or hearing voices. He's pursuing a course in the direction of a known goal. Exactly what that goal is, we haven't figured out yet."

He leans back in the brown leather chair that he's had since I've known him. It is worn and cracked in places. He's been told on more than one occasion to get rid of it, orders he's ignored. He can be stubborn like that. He gets away with it because he's good at what he does.

"Okay," he says, "then what's left? What's the plan of attack?"

"Callie and James are dealing with the trace. Perhaps we'll get a break there."

"But you don't think so."

"No, sir, but. ." I shrug. "Assume making an ass of u and me and all that."

"And? What else?"

"Alan and I are returning to Father Yates. We're going to interview all of Rosemary's known associates and see where that takes us."

He taps his fingers on the desk. Nods. "I'll fill in the Director. Keep me in the loop."

"Yes, sir."

"And call Rosario Reid, Smoky. Keeping her in the loop and on our side is a good idea."

"That was the very next thing, sir."

"NOTHING NEW? NOTHING AT ALL?"

Rosario's voice sounds far away. I don't hear the strength I'd seen in her car that night.

"No, I'm sorry. But it's early, Rosario, very early. Sometimes this is how it goes."

"And that other poor girl he murdered? Does she have a family too?"

"Not that we've found. She did have her church, though."

Silence.

"Lisa's funeral is tomorrow."

I hear the edge in her voice, the desire to crack warring with her own control.

"I'm sorry."

"Can I ask you something, Smoky?"

"Anything you like."

"How was it? Burying your Alexa?"

The question has scalpel precision; it cuts through my defenses in a blink.

How was it? The memory is as vivid now as then. I buried them at the same time, Matt and Alexa, my world. I remember that the day was beautiful. California sun lit up the coffins till the metal on them gleamed. The sky was cloudless and blue. I heard nothing, felt nothing, said nothing. I marveled at the sun and watched as my life was put into the ground, forever.

"It was like a horror movie that wouldn't end," I tell her.

"But it did end, didn't it?"

"Yes."

"And that was even worse, wasn't it? That it ended."

"That was the worst of all."

I promised her truth, always, and I have no qualms about delivering it. Rosario Reid and I are sisters in spirit. We don't really have it in us to take our own lives in despair, or to turn into raging alcoholics. We're built to grieve and scream and then, when it's over, to carry on. Changed and heavier, but alive. She wants to know what is going to happen; I'm telling her. I can't save her from it, I can only prepare her for it.

"Thank you for keeping me up-to-date, Smoky." A pause. "I know, you know, that finding him is not going to make it better. It's not going to bring her back to me."

"But that's not the point, Rosario. I understand, believe me. He has to pay."

He has to pay for what he did, not because it will bring Lisa back, not even because it will diminish any of the pain her death leaves behind, but because he killed Rosario's child. No other reason is needed, it stands alone. Eat a mother's children and pay the price, a law of the universe that must be enforced.

"Yes. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Rosario."

I realize, after we hang up, that I had been lucky, in a way. I got to kill the man who killed my child. It changed nothing. My Alexa was still dead. But. . when I think of him, dying at my hand, a lioness purrs inside me, satisfied and terrible. That blood on her whiskers always tastes divine.

18

THE SUMMER DIES HARD HERE, HOLDING ON TO SUNLIGHT with its last gasp. The air this morning had been crisp, cool but not cold, and now the temperature is heading into the high sixties. The traffic is not bad. Alan is able to keep the speedometer above seventy-five. This can be a minor miracle on the 405 freeway any time of day. You're never lonely on the 405, no matter when you drive. I watch as Los Angeles proper morphs into the San Fernando Valley. It's a subtle change but a change nonetheless. If Los Angeles were an apple, it would be rotting from the inside out, with downtown as its core. The Valley is blighted as well, but flowers still grow through the cracks in places. There is just a little bit more space, just a little less dirt.

We pull into the parking lot of the Holy Redeemer.

"Not much to look at, is it?" Alan observes.

I hadn't gotten a good look at the church last night; it was dark and I'd been tired. Alan is right. It's small, probably poorly funded. No rich parishioners to keep Father Yates in real butter, here. This place is strictly margarine. Water from a tap, not a bottle.

"I trust it more this way," I say.

Alan smiles. "I know what you mean."

We learn, in our line of work, that clothes don't make the man. You can kill in a T-shirt or a three-piece suit, you can be rich and kill or poor and kill. A knife is a knife is a knife. I don't trust any church completely, but I trust the gold and gilded ones the least of all. Piety, in my opinion, is an ascetic activity.

"I called ahead," Alan says. "He's expecting us."

I GET TO SEE THE interior of the church with new eyes as well. And a new nose; I smell bleach. The pews are wooden and well worn. The floor is concrete, not marble. The altar at the front is small. Christ hangs in his usual position looking down on us all. Our savior needs a paint job, he's flaked in places.

His image still makes me quiver inside. I don't know if I believe in Him anymore, but I believed in Him once. Him and the Virgin Mary. I prayed to them, begged them to cure my mother's cancer. Mom died anyway. That betrayal was the end of my relationship with God. How could He forgive me for my sins when I'd never forgiven Him for His?

Father Yates sees us and comes toward us with a smile.

"Agent Barrett, Agent Washington."

"Hello, Father," I say. "It's pretty empty in here. Slow day?"

I wince inside. I seem helpless to censor my own bitterness in this place. Alan looks at me strangely. Father Yates takes it in stride.

"Every day is a slow day at the Reedeemer, Agent Barrett. We're not saving souls by the bucketful here. One at a time."

"Sorry, Father. That was uncalled for."

He waves a hand. "You're mad at God, I understand. If He can take it-and I think He can-then so can I. Now, I have someone I'd like you to meet. Agent Washington told me why you've come, and the woman I'm about to introduce you to is the only person I could think of. So far as I know, she was Rosemary's only friend. Rosemary had no living family. But perhaps this person will be helpful."

"Why?"

"Because she used to be a police officer. A detective, in fact. In Ohio."

"Really?"

"Cross my heart." He smiles. Priest humor. "She's waiting for you in the sacristy."

LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE ABOUT THIS church, the sacristy is small but clean. Simple shelving provides a place for the chalice to rest when not in use. I can see the wine and the bag containing the host wafers.

"They're made by nuns," my mother had told me when I asked. I was not a fan of nuns at the time, but I had to admit that I liked the wafers even less. They should have been a reward for surviving the endurance test of Mass, but they tasted like Styrofoam. I see a closet with no doors, wood painted white. Father Yates's vestments hang inside.

There is no desk in this small room, just a window and three battered wooden chairs. A woman sits in one of the chairs, waiting.

"This is Andrea," Father Yates tells us. "Andrea, this is Agent Smoky Barrett and Agent Alan Washington."

She nods but does not speak.

"I'll leave you alone for now," the priest says, and takes his exit. I examine Andrea. She's not a small woman but not big either, about five-four and maybe a hundred thirty pounds. Her face would be average if not for her eyes and her hair. The hair is long and shiny and so black that it's almost blue. Her eyes are large and limpid and darker than the hair.

They are intelligent eyes. I can see the hint of cop in them. Her gaze is frank, direct, guarded, that mix of contradictions only found in law-enforcement professionals and hardened criminals. She takes in my scars without a perceptible reaction.

She's wearing a yellow T-shirt that's maybe a half size too big for her and a pair of faded blue jeans and tennis shoes. I hold out a hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Andrea," I say.

Her grip is firm and stronger than I expected. Her palms are dry. I manage to cover my own surprise at the scars I see on her wrist and arm. Two cuts, one horizontal, one vertical. The mark of the truly dedicated suicide.

"Likewise." Her voice is low and throaty, the voice of a phone-sex operator. "And yeah, I tried to kill myself once." She turns up her other wrist, and I see more scars. "They're a matching set."

"Been close myself," I say, though I'm not sure why. She gives me a mild look, and nods for us to take a seat.

"Why does Rosemary's murder rate the attention of the Feds?" she asks.

Right to the point. I try out the standard answer.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

She gives me the most mirthless smile I've ever seen, followed by a chuckle that says we're funny if we think she's going to be that easy.

"Then I'm not at liberty to help you. Put up or shut up."

I glance at Alan. He shrugs.

"Fine," I say. "Rosemary is not this killer's only victim. If you need to know more, then we're done."

"Nope, that makes sense. And I'm glad to hear it."

"That he's killed others?"

"Of course. Multiple murders are easier to solve than single instance homicides."

She has no concern for the bigger picture. If the death of others will help solve the murder of her friend, so be it.

"You want to tell us about it?" Alan asks.

I glance at him. He's entirely focused on Andrea. Alan is possibly the most gifted interrogator I know, so I keep my mouth shut and take a moment to study her.

It takes me longer to see it than he had, but I catch on. It's in her eyes, in her face, in everything about her. She's sad. It's not the shortterm sadness of someone having a bad day. It's not despair. This is something in between, a weariness that carries weight. Andrea is someone with a story to tell, a bad one, and you have to let her tell it before you can ask her what you really want to know. Andrea doesn't respond right away. She continues to assess me with those big, dark eyes for a few moments before turning them onto Alan.

"I used to be a cop," she begins. "Back in Ohio."

Alan nods. "Father Yates told us."

"I was a good cop. I had the gift. I could smell the lies a mile away, and I could make connections where others couldn't. I ended up in homicide five years in."

"Fast track," Alan notes. "All ability, or did you have a rabbi?"

Someone higher up who shepherded her career, he is asking.

"Both. I was good, real good. But my dad had been a cop too, so I had people looking out for me. It's the way of things there."

"Here too," he says. "I was in LAPD homicide for ten years. Ability wasn't always enough."

"Yeah. Well, I managed to juggle it all pretty good. I got promoted fast, married a great guy-not a cop-and had a baby. A beautiful boy named Jared. Life was good. Then things changed."

She stops talking. Stares off into the distance.

"What things?" Alan prods her.

"There was this guy. He killed families. Wholesale. He'd come into a suburban neighborhood and recon until he found the right family. His requisites were: multiple children aged ten or above, preferably with some boys and girls in their teens, and at least one parent. Single moms were the best, but he always wanted a boy as a part of the equation, whether it was the dad or a son, brother, whatever.

"He'd come at them when it got dark. He'd make them all strip and then he'd spend the night doing his thing. He'd force them to have sex with each other. Sisters to sisters, Mom to son, dads to daughters. You get the picture. Then he'd fuck his favorite or a few of his favorites. When he was done, he'd leave all of them alive except for one that he would strangle while the others watched."

She swallows, remembering all of this.

"A task force was put together. I was on it as second in command. I was hot for it too. Something about this one got to me. Still don't know why. It was bad, sure, but I'd already seen gruesome."

"Sometimes it's easier to deal with dead victims than living ones,"

I offer.

She looks at me with renewed interest. "Funny you should mention that. These families were permanently fucked up. Most ended in divorce. Some of the fathers and kids killed themselves. None of the mothers, though. Still not sure why."

"For the kids," Alan murmurs.

"What?" she asks.

"The mothers didn't kill themselves because they needed to be there for the kids."

She stares at Alan for a moment, then continues.

"The ruin of those poor people is what he got off on. That was his real fix. Once I understood that, I knew that's why he kept them alive. He wanted to go back and watch them be miserable. We posted surveillance around his victims' homes and, sure enough, the fucker showed up. Ohio has the death penalty so he sucked down cyanide gas a few years ago."

"That's good work," I say.

"We caught him," she agrees, "but it didn't help me. I couldn't get the victims' stories out of my head. The things he made them do. How it affected them. I started to have trouble sleeping and in true cop fashion, I kept it all to myself and turned to the same therapist my dad had always used in rough times. Dr. Johnnie Walker." Another one of those mirthless smiles. "Dr. Walker was cheap, he could keep a secret, and he always went down clean."

"Seen him myself," Alan says.

"Really?" she asks.

"Sure. Lots of cops have."

Bitterness spasms across her face. "The thing is, he's not really cheap. He starts out low, but that back end is a bitch."

"Almost cost me my marriage," Alan replies. "What did it cost you?"

Those eyes close once and open again and turn to me and then Alan and then the ceiling. I see a storm in them, wind and rain and thunder, pain and rage and something more terrible but undefined.

"Everything," she says. "It cost me everything." Her voice is a monotone. "Maybe if I'd reached out, asked for help, I could've changed things. But cops aren't too big on that anyway, and I had the added pressure of being a woman. Someone was always waiting for me to show weakness. I kept it to myself, and I hid it good. One thing a cop can do, man, is lie." She looks at Alan. "I drove drunk with Jared in the car. We crashed, he died."

Silence. She's not looking at us now.

I have a bitter taste in my mouth, like blood. This is just one more terrible story to add to my catalogue of useless and terrible stories. What happened to her did not happen because she was a bad person or a bad cop or a bad mother. Something about that case got to her where others hadn't and drove her to the bottle. One day she was in the car with her son and the bottle made her zig instead of zag. That was the end of her, at least for a little while. The fact that she'd caught the monster didn't matter. She was his last victim.

"I tried to kill myself twice. Once with pills, the other time with a razor. I got put on disability from the force. My husband left me. I was about to give suicide a third whirl when I realized the truth: death was too good for me. What I needed to do was suffer." She's still talking in that laconic monotone. "So I moved to LA and I became a whore."

I flinch at this revelation.

"Why?" I ask.

The large eyes find me, pin me. "Penance. I killed my son. I de served to suffer. I figured letting myself get fucked by strangers for four or five years for money would be a good start." She barks a laugh.

"The capper? A guy I had arrested in Ohio had gotten out and moved to LA. Fate sent him my way. He really got off on having the female cop who busted him down on her knees sucking his cock."

I am aghast. I can't find the words.

"You're not doing that now," Alan says. "How'd you come to be here?"

"Time does one thing, Agent Washington. It keeps on going. The world moves on. You get changed by that, whether you want to or not. Doesn't matter how much pain, doesn't matter how much you hate yourself. Sooner or later, even if just in little ways, your soul moves on. I was happy to suffer for what I did to Jared. It was right. But one day I woke up and had the idea that maybe it was enough."

She shrugs. "I needed a place to turn. I was raised Catholic, so I found my way here. Father Yates did what he does, and I quit being a whore."

I realize this is about as abridged as it gets. The gap between whoring herself as penance for her dead son and who she is now is a big one, but this woman is only going to share what she wants to. She's not going to cry, or get touchy-feely, or look toward heaven with a beatific light in her eyes. She might have been a soft flower once-

who knows? That rose had long since turned to stone.

"How well did you know Rosemary?" Alan asks.

The smallest quiver in the cool facade.

"Well. Real well. We'd become best friends."

"Sorry."

"Life's a bummer sometimes."

"You met here?"

"Yeah. We both did volunteer work on Saturdays. Helping other down-and-outers, whatever. I wasn't very talkative. Rosemary drew me out. She had a way about her, a kind of helpless happiness that was hard to resist. Like, she knew everything was fucked up, but she couldn't help laughing anyway. That's what attracted me to her; she never stopped hoping for a reason to be happy."

Something about the way she's talking makes me ask the question.

"Were you lovers?"

Her eyes narrow, then she sighs.

"Briefly. It wasn't about sex for me, really. I just wanted to be with someone. And I liked Rosemary. We ended it in a good way. I'm not that into women, and neither was Rosemary. We dropped the sex and kept the love. It worked for us."

"I understand," Alan says. He moves in gently now, with the question we really want answered. "Andrea, is there anything you can tell us that you think might help us? Anyone you noticed taking an undue interest in Rosemary? Anyone new working around the church?

Anything at all."

She shakes her head in frustration.

"I've been racking my brains, believe me. When I heard Rosemary had been killed, I went a little crazy. I never cry anymore, but I destroyed some furniture. I haven't thought about too much else since then. The thing is, Rosemary kept herself on a tight, tight leash. She was addicted to fucking. I'm not saying she was addicted to sex, that's the wrong phraseology. She liked fucking. The more degrading the better. The way she kept things under control was to have a routine and to not change that routine. She'd get up, exercise, work, then come here. Other than spending time with me, that was it."

"And no breaks or changes in that routine prior to her death?"

Alan asks.

She spreads her hands, helpless. "No. Nothing."

"What about here?" he prods. "New male arrivals?"

"I considered that, believe me. But no, nothing. Sorry, I wish I could be more help, but the only thing I can say for sure is that it wasn't someone from her past."

"Why do you say that?" I ask.

"Rosemary told me everyone she ever knew was long dead and gone. Killed off by age, illness, or drugs."

ALAN AND I ARE DRIVING back to the Bureau. I'm feeling restless and discombobulated.

"This is fucked up, Alan," I say.

"How's that?"

"We're nowhere. Nowhere. We have three victims-and we only have those because he gave them to us-no reliable description, no fingerprints, no nada. I have an idea of what's driving him, but it's too incomplete. Nothing's vivid, nothing's standing out."

He gives me a look.

"What?" I ask.

"This is how it goes sometimes. We work the case until we find something that breaks it. You know that. Why are you getting so worked up about it just two days in?"

"Because it's personal."

"How?"

"We think this guy has been creeping around for years killing people, right? We think that the numbers on those crosses designate the number of victims. If that's true, he's going to turn out to be one of the most prolific killers ever. And he's been doing it right under our noses. The Lisas and Rosemarys of the world have been dropping like flies and he's been laughing about it the whole time."

He nods. "The victims got to you."

It's an incisive observation, a word-knife.

"I always care about the victims."

"Sure, of course. But sometimes you care more than others. This is one of those times, isn't it?"

I stop resisting.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"For the same reason that Atkins was upset about Rosemary. Most people let life carry them along. They accept what they get. Lisa Reid and Rosemary Sonnenfeld swam against the current. Even though they knew it might be hard, might even be futile, they swam anyway. Then, after they'd made it to shore, this guy came up behind them, slit their throats, and dumped their bodies back in the river."

He's silent for a little while, just driving. He clears his throat.

"Yeah. They got to me too. Made me think of you."

I look at him in surprise.

"Really?"

He smiles, gives me a sideways glance.

"When it comes to swimming against the current, Smoky, you're the hands-down gold medal winner."

19

"NO USABLE PRINTS," CALLIE BEGINS. "ALL THE BLOOD ON the cushions belonged to Lisa Reid. We found a black hair on trace that did not belong to Lisa, but there was no root. We're not going to be able to get DNA from it."

"Great," I say. "What about the cross?"

"It's not pure silver," James says. "That is, it's sterling silver. About ninety-three percent silver mixed with copper. Very common. He picked a good metal to work with if he wanted to make the crosses himself. Sterling silver melts at approximately sixteen hundred forty degrees Fahrenheit, it's harder than gold, and very malleable."

"What you're saying is that he could have grabbed up a bunch of spoons and melted them down to make his crosses?" Alan asks.

"Easily."

"What about the tools needed to do that? Anything unusual that we could track?"

" 'Fraid not," Callie says. "If you're not melting large amounts, the right kind of gas torch will do the trick."

"Lisa's apartment? We know he touched her diary, and I bet he spent a while roaming through the rooms."

Callie shakes her head. "Again, no prints. I even brushed the keys on her keyboard. He's a careful boy."

"As expected," I admit.

"Got a call from the local detective," Alan says. "Passengers on the plane describe our perp as a talkative white guy with a beard. He had roughly the same appearance as Ambrose. Unhelpful."

I walk to the dry-erase board in frustration. I begin to rattle off what we know, little as it is, searching for something cohesive or helpful.

"It's not about sex, it's about him seeing them as sinners-

repentant or not."

"Repentant," James says.

I turn to look at him. "Explain."

"The story the cop told you about herself tells us something about Rosemary. They were friends because these were people who had devoted themselves to walking the straight and narrow. They kept themselves under tight control. They took care to reduce any catalysts in their environments that might drive them back into addiction-seeking behavior. The point being, everything about these people says repentance."

"What about Lisa?" Alan asks.

"Lisa's own diary shows her repentance," James points out. I nod. "Good, James. Let's go with repentant. Back to methodology: the coup de grace is a poke in the side just like Christ got on the mount. He leaves crosses in the wounds, and inscribes them with numbers, which may or may not be a counting of his victims up to now. If it is a count, he's very prolific and thus very accomplished. VICAP doesn't come up with earlier similar crimes, which means he's only just decided to step into the limelight."

"Another contradiction," James murmurs.

"How do you mean?" I ask.

"The cross. It's his symbol, its placement is ritualistic. When ritual is involved, it's everything. If he has killed over a hundred people, how did he resist placement of the cross prior to this point? We would have heard about corpses turning up with crosses in their sides. We haven't."

It's a good point. Murder is always an act filled with significance for the organized serial killer. How it is done is specific, important, sacred. She must be blonde, she must never be more than a C cup, her toenails must be painted red when she dies-this is a signature and once developed, it is never deviated from. Our killer stabs them in the side and places silver crosses in the wounds. If he really has been killing for years, this should not be a new behavior.

"Only a few possibilities in that case," Alan notes. "He's changed his pattern, the numbers are a bluff, or he disposed of the bodies of his past victims so they'd remain undiscovered."

"I think it's the last," James intones.

"Wonderful thought," Callie says.

I stare at my own writing on the board, willing something else to jump out at me. Anything. Nothing does.

"Well, that's all well and valid, but we're dead-ended," I admit.

"That's it then?" Alan asks.

"For now. I'll go brief AD Jones. Use the time to get your paperwork up-to-date and keep your fingers crossed that we'll get a break that doesn't involve another dead body."

"SO BACK OFF IT FOR now," AD Jones tells me. "Sometimes that's what you have to do, give yourself some distance."

"I know, sir, it's just. ."

"I know, I know: he's not taking a break. That's tough, but that's how it goes sometimes." He examines me, speculative. "You've been spoiled the last few years."

Annoyance flares up at this observation. I can barely keep the edge off my voice.

"How do you figure that, sir?"

"Don't get your back up. What I'm saying is, you've had a good run breaking cases quick. A real good run. It's not like that all the time. Everyone has their Zodiac, Smoky. The one they never catch. I'm not saying that's what this is, I'm just saying that you won't win them all."

I stare at him and try to keep it from becoming a glare.

"Sir, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I don't want to hear that right now."

He shrugs, unsympathetic. "No one ever wants to hear it. The stakes are too high. But you better be ready for the day that you fail, because that day is going to come, guaranteed."

"Wow. Great pep talk, sir."

He barks a laugh. "Okay, okay. I'll keep running interference with Director Rathbun. Do what you have to."

"Thank you, sir."

I SURVEY THE OFFICE. CALLIE is chattering away on the phone with her daughter, Marilyn, about the wedding. The fact that Callie has a daughter, much less a grandson, is still a little disorienting. She was always the picture of a female bachelor, enjoying men like a gourmet meal. Her only permanent ties were here, with us, the job. She'd buried a moment in her past, along with the pain it had caused her, until a case and a killer brought her and her daughter together again. It irks me, now and again, that a mass murderer was responsible for giving Callie this gift.

Alan is out of the office and James has his nose buried in a file. I stare at the white board until my eyes burn.

"A whole lotta nothing," I mutter underneath my breath. "Oh well for now."

Putting a case aside is not like placing a file folder in the "to do"

pile. You open your arms and close your eyes and fling it as far away from you as possible. It sails away and you head into your normal life at a dead run and pretend it's not out there, circling like a bat. It is out there, though. Tethered to your wrist with sticky-string, tugging and chuckling and waiting for the wind to change. Sometimes I'll wake up in the night to find it there, perched on my chest, staring at me with those big black eyes and smiling at me with a mouth too wide for its face. It loves me. It's horrible that it loves me. I'm about to go see Bonnie, so I open my arms and fling. Force of will works, again, for now.

20

I CONSULT MY GROCERY LIST IN THE CAR TO MAKE SURE I GOT everything. Bonnie and I always choose the weekly recipe together. This week we're feeling ambitious and are trying a steak with a Madeira-balsamic vinegar sauce. The mere fact that it involves the unlikely mixing of wine, balsamic vinegar, and Dijon mustard is a little terrifying, but we had agreed to stray outside our comfort zone. I read the list back to myself in a mutter: "Delmonico steaks, cracked pepper, olive oil, yep, all there."

Satisfied, I head toward what is always the highlight of my day, week, month, and year: picking up my adopted daughter to bring her home with me.

"SMOKY!"

It's a cry of sheer delight, followed by a twelve-year-old crashing into me. I return the hug and marvel, with a mix of amazement and regret, at just how tall Bonnie has gotten. At twelve, she's five feet one, which might seem reasonable to an outside observer. It means she is taller than me. The fact that two years ago I could look down and see the top of her head emphasizes the changes she is going through. I never got to experience this with Alexa, watching her morph subtly from girl to young lady. Bonnie teeters on the cusp of becoming a teenager and she is definitely her mother's daughter. Annie was a beautiful, blonde early bloomer. Bonnie has that same blonde hair, the same striking blue eyes, the same slender frame. She is changing from awkward to coltish before my eyes. I note again, and always with the same mix of sadness, anxiety, and helplessness, that her chest is no longer boy-flat, that her walk has become less clumsy and more loping.

A dark thought comes to me: the boys. They'll start noticing you soon. They won't know why, not exactly, but you'll be more interesting. You'll catch the eyes of the normal ones, but you'll also catch the eyes of the hungry ones, because they'll smell you like a dog smells meat.

I shove this thought away down deep. Worry later. Love now.

"Hey, babe," I say, grinning. "How was school?"

She pulls away and rolls her eyes. "Boring but okay."

"She did fine," Elaina says. "A little distracted maybe, but she's ahead of her grade level."

Bonnie smiles at Elaina, basking in the praise. I can't blame her. Praise from Elaina is like sugar cookies or a patch of warm sun. Elaina is one of those genuine people, who always mean what they say, say what they mean, and err in the direction of kindness. She's been another mother to Bonnie and to me. Our love for her is fierce.

"Goddammit," Alan mutters.

He's sitting on the couch in front of the TV, and appears to be having troubles with the remote.

"Language," Bonnie scolds.

"Sorry," he says. "We just got TiVo and I'm having some problems figuring it out."

Bonnie gives Elaina and me another eye roll and walks over to Alan. She grabs the remote from him.

"You're such a Luddite, Alan," she says. "Here's how you do it."

She walks him through the steps of picking programs to record and how to watch them when they have, answers his questions with patience. Elaina and I look on, bemused.

"And that's all there is to it," she finishes.

"Thanks, kiddo," Alan says. "Now beat it so I can watch my programs."

"No hug?" Bonnie admonishes.

He smiles at her. "Just testing you," he says, and reaches out to engulf her in those massive arms. The affection between the two is a constant. If Elaina is another mother, Alan is a second father.

"Okay, now beat it," he says.

"Come on," I tell her. "We've got a steak to ruin."

She grabs her backpack, gives Elaina a final hug, and we head out the door.

"Luddite, huh?" I say as we reach the car.

"Vocabulary. See? I listen," she says, and sticks her tongue out at me.

"MAN'S GUIDE TO STEAK," I complain. "Why did we choose this cookbook? Hello-two women here."

"Because it's made for cooking retards like us," Bonnie replies.

"Now come on, we can do this. What does he say?"

I sigh and read aloud from the cookbook.

" 'Rub the surface of the steaks with salt and pepper.' "

"Check."

"We're supposed to use a half tablespoon of olive oil in the skillet."

"Check."

"Uh. . then we heat the olive oil to high heat. Whatever that means."

Bonnie shrugs and turns the knob to high. "I guess we just wait till we think it's hot."

"I'm going to cut the slit in the middle of the meat."

This is our cheat. The first few times we tried to cook steaks, we followed the various dictates of a cookbook. "Three to four minutes on each side," or whatever, and ended up with meat that was either too cooked or too rare. It had been Bonnie who suggested slicing the meat all the way through in one place so we could actually watch the color of the center change. It wasn't pretty, but it had worked for us so far.

"I think it's ready," Bonnie says.

I grab the two steaks and look at her. "Here goes nothing." I throw them on the pan and we are rewarded with the sound of sizzling. Bonnie works the spatula as I look on, pressing the meat to the pan. "Smells good so far," she offers.

"I have microwave mac and cheese in the freezer if we really screw it up," I say.

She grins at me and I grin back. We really have no idea what we're doing, but we're doing it together.

"How does that look to you?" she asks me.

I bend forward and see that the center is brown, but not too brown. We have managed to do this without turning the outside surface of the steaks into charcoal. Miraculous.

"They're done," I decide.

She uses the spatula to remove them from the skillet and onto the waiting plates.

"Okay," I say, "now comes the scary part. The sauce."

"We can do it."

"We can try."

She holds up a stick of butter. "How much?"

I consult the cookbook. "A tablespoon. But first it says to reduce to medium heat. Maybe we should give it a second to cool down. I think butter can burn."

We wait a few moments, still mystified.

"Now?" she asks.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

She digs into the butter with the spoon and drops it onto the pan. We watch as it bubbles and turns liquid.

"I don't know," Bonnie says. "Doesn't seem like much butter to me."

"You think we should add more?"

She frowns. "Well. . it's just butter. It's probably safe."

"Do another tablespoon."

She does so and we watch it melt and become one with its brother.

"Now what?" she asks.

"It says we're supposed to stir in the shallots. . oh crap." I look up at her. "I don't remember anything about shallots."

"What's a shallot?"

"Exactly."

We stare down at the pan of now bubbling butter. Look back at each other.

"What do we do?" I ask.

"I don't know," Bonnie replies. "Maybe the extra butter will make up for it?"

"Works for me," I say. I giggle.

Bonnie points the spatula at me. "Get it under control, Smoky,"

she says in a stern voice. Then giggles herself. Which of course gets me giggling again and now this train is really in danger of leaving its rails.

"Oh Lord," I manage to sputter, "we'd better finish this up or the butter is going to burn."

Bonnie giggles again. "Because butter burns."

"So I hear." I consult the cookbook. "Back to high heat."

She turns the knob.

"Now we stir in one cup Madeira wine and one-third cup balsamic vinegar."

We pour the cups in and are rewarded with an acrid, stinking cloud of vinegar fumes.

"Wow!" Bonnie sputters. "That smells terrible! Are you sure that's what the book says?"

I blink my eyes to clear them and consult our current bible. "Yep."

"How long do we cook it?"

"Stir it until. . let me see. . till it's reduced by half."

Three minutes later, to our amazement, the mix has done exactly what the cookbook predicted.

"Now we're supposed to whisk in three teaspoons of Dijon mustard," I say. We plop the mustard into what is beginning to look somewhat swillish. Bonnie whisks away. The odor is not as strong as it was before, but it doesn't smell great.

"Are you sure this isn't some kind of a practical-joke cookbook or something?" she asks.

"Oh, hey," I say. "Turns out we're supposed to use three tablespoons of butter after all. The two we already did, and add another one now, just until it melts."

The butter does not make our witch's brew look any more appetizing. A few moments pass. Bonnie frowns at me.

"Think it's done?"

I peer at the concoction. It's a yellowish gray color. It smells of butter, mustard, and vinegar. "Too late for prayer."

We take the skillet off the stove and spread the sauce over each steak as the cookbook directs. Bonnie takes our plates to the table as I pour us each a glass of water.

We're poised over our steaks now, forks and knives in hand.

"Ready?" she asks me.

"Yep."

We each cut off a piece and pop them into our mouths. There is silence and chewing.

"Wow," Bonnie says, amazed, "that's actually. ."

"— really good," I finish for her.

"No, like really good."

"As in delicious."

She grins at me, a spark of mischief in her eyes.

"Shallots?" she says. "We don't need no stinking shallots."

I'd taken a drink of water and I choke on it as I laugh.

"I THINK NEXT TIME WE might even try adding a side of vegetables," I say.

We'd had just the steak and some dinner rolls.

"Maybe some shallots," Bonnie jokes.

I smile. We're sitting on the couch, barely watching some reality talent show. Dinner had been great, and the evening has been wonderful. Normal. I crave normal a lot, but get it rarely.

"So, I want to talk about school," Bonnie says.

So much for normal.

I chastise myself for this. What could be more normal than a kid wanting to go to a school with other kids? I can see from the anxiety in her face that she's so worried about how what she wants will make me feel.

Oh hell.

I focus on her, give her all of my attention.

"Yes. I'm listening, babe. Tell me."

She shifts her legs up under her, and pushes a lock of hair back behind her ear while she searches for the right words. This gesture gives me a strong feeling of deja vu; the ghost of her mother. Genetic possession.

"I've been thinking a lot, lately." She glances at me, smiles a shy smile. "I guess I think a lot all the time."

"It's one of your better qualities, bunny. Not enough thinking in this world. What's been on your mind?"

"What I want to do when I grow up. Well. . when I'm an adult, I mean."

Interesting distinction.

"And?"

"I want to do what you do."

I stare, at a loss for words. Of all the things she could have said, of all the professions she could have chosen, this I like the least.

"Why?" I manage. "What about painting?"

She gives me a smile that says I am deluded but nonetheless charming.

"I'm not that good, Momma-Smoky. Painting is something I'll always enjoy. It brings me peace. But it's not what I'm meant to do."

"Baby, you're twelve. How can you be meant to do anything?"

Her eyes snap to mine and fill with a coolness that shuts me up fast. Right now, she looks anything but twelve.

"Do you know the first thing I see, every time I close my eyes?" Her voice is calm, soothing, almost singsong. "I see my mother's dead face. Just like I saw it for those three days when I was tied to her." She stares off at nothing and everything, remembering. "She was stuck in a scream. I cried on her a lot the first day. I remember feeling bad about that, because some of my tears went into her eyes and I thought that that just wasn't right, she couldn't brush them away or anything. Then I stopped crying and I started trying to sleep. I pretended like she wasn't dead, and she was just holding me. It even worked, for a little while. Until she started to smell. After that, it was all grays and blues and blacks. I paint those colors sometimes and think about that last day, because that last day wasn't real, but it was the most real day of all. When I dream about that last day, all I dream about is screaming and rain."

These words transfix me. When I can speak again, my voice is rough with grief. "I'm sorry, Bonnie. So so so so sorry."

She comes back to the present. Her eyes lose that faraway coolness, that deadness, and fill with concern for me, instead. "Hey, hey, Momma-Smoky, it's okay. Well, I mean, no, it's not okay, but I'm okay. I could have been really messed up forever, you know? I wasn't sure I was going to be able to talk again or stop having nightmares. I even thought about killing myself. But now, I like my life. I love Elaina, and Alan, and most of all, I really love you." She grins. "Like tonight. We made steaks."

"Yes," I manage. "Good steaks."

"Yeah, and that's small, but it's also everything, you know?"

"I do, babe."

"But the thing with my mom happened, Smoky. It happened, and it's always there and in a way it always will be. I know you know what I mean, because stuff happened to you too. And you know what?

I don't want to forget. I think the day I can't remember how my mom looked in that room is the day I'll really be in trouble."

The simple mature wisdom of what she's saying takes the keen edge off the saw blade that had been attacking my heart. She's right. I used to think that if I stopped mourning Matt and Alexa, I was killing them all over again. I came to realize that suffering was not a requirement, not even guilt; remembering was enough. But-and here is the ocean-sized caveat-remembering is required.

"I understand," I tell her.

She smiles at me. "I know you do. So you should understand why I want to do what you do."

"Because of what happened to your mom."

Those cool, oh-too-speculative eyes are back. The twelve-year-old is gone again.

"Not just my mom. Because of what happened to me. Because of what happened to you. Because of what happened to Sarah."

Sarah was the living victim of a case I'd been involved in a few years back. Even though she is six years older than Bonnie, they have found kinship in tragedy and remain close friends.

"Everyone I love most knows that the monsters are real, MommaSmoky. When you know they're real, you can't pretend anymore, and you have to do something about it."

I stare at her. I don't want to hear these words coming from that mouth.

God, I hate this conversation. And you know what? I'm going to lose this argument. Because these wheels were put in motion the moment Bonnie was tied to her gutted mom and left there to change into what she is now.

It makes me sad. I've been living in a fantasy world, hoping that Bonnie would grow into a normal life, a normal job, get the white picket fence and the dog. Who had I been kidding?

Not her, that's for sure.

I sigh. "I understand, babe."

I may not like it, but I do.

"Going to a regular school is a part of that. I can't understand the monsters, not really, if I don't understand normal people, you know?"

And you're not one of the normal people, babe?

I think it, but do not ask it. I don't want to hear her answer.

"I thought maybe it was so you could make some friends your own age."

"But I'm not my own age, Momma-Smoky."

It finally happens, against my will. That little tidbit is enough to bring a tear. Just one. It rolls down my cheek in a straight line. Bonnie's face scrunches up in concern and she reaches her hand out to wipe it away.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you sad."

I clear my throat. "I don't ever want you to tell me anything less than the truth. However it makes me feel."

"But you shouldn't feel bad. I could be dead. I could be in a mental institution. I could still be screaming in the middle of the night-

remember that?"

"Yes."

We both used to do it, sometimes in stereo. Nightmares would walk us into memory and we'd wake up screaming ourselves hoarse.

"So things are better, see? I don't want you to think I'm not happy."

She manages to drill down with that, to put words to the greatest, most basic mother-fear.

"Are you, babe? Happy?"

I'm a little shocked at the miserable, desperately hopeful sound of my own voice.

She gives me a new smile now, one that's unfettered, unadulterated, no fog, no screams or rain or cold, cold eyes. Just twelve-year-old cloudless blue-sky sunshine, the most beautiful sun there is.

"Eight days out of ten, Momma-Smoky."

I remember what Alan said earlier, and know that he was right. Count your blessings is a cliche, but only because it's so damn true. Bonnie is here, Bonnie is beautiful, intelligent, talented, she talks, she doesn't fear life or wake up screaming in the night. Yes, she's been changed by what happened to her, but she hasn't been broken, and in the end, that's the biggest blessing of all. Almost a miracle, really. I grab her and hug her to me.

"Okay, okay. But can you wait till next fall? Finish out this year with Elaina?"

"Yes, yes, yes, thank you, thank you!"

I know the decision is the right one, because those squeals of delight are pure twelve-year-old again. We spend the rest of the night wrapped in normalcy, doing nothing much, just enjoying each other's company. For a little while, I don't worry if someone's dying.

Somehow, the world turns on without me.

I WAKE UP TO THE insistent buzz of my cell phone. I check the caller ID with bleary eyes. Alan.

"It's five A.M.," I answer. "Can't be good."

"It's not," he says. "The shit's about to hit the fan."