The Face of Death

This is enough to get rid of my grin.

"Yeah. Well, she'll protect you, Sarah. And she'll protect the people who live in the home you're going to tomorrow too."

She frowns. "No foster home. I need to go to the group home. He doesn't kill people there."

That's true, I think. "Do you know why that is, Sarah?"

"Maybe. I think it's because I don't care about anyone at the group home. And I think it's because he knows just living there is bad. I mean, it is--the group home sucks. Girls have been beaten and molested and . . ." She waves a hand. "You get the idea. I think it's enough for him that he knows I'm there because of him."

"I see."

I sit back for a moment, considering. I'm trying to choose my words, which is hard, because I'm really only realizing how I feel about this right now, myself. I love Elaina. And there is Bonnie, who stays at Alan and Elaina's while I am at work. A not-small, very selfish part of me wants to say: Yes! I agree! You need to go to a group home. People die around you!

But then I feel a great stubbornness rise up in me at that. The same stubbornness that kept me from moving out of the home I'd been raped in, that my family had died in.

"You can't give in to fear," I say to her. "And you're going to have to accept help from others. This is different than all the other times, Sarah. We know what he is. We believe he exists. And we're taking steps to protect ourselves and you from him. The man and woman you're going to live with know what we're dealing with, and have chosen to take you in anyway. And you're going to have Kirby to watch over you, don't forget that."

Her eyes are downcast. She's struggling with this.

"I don't know."

"You don't have to know, Sarah," I say, my voice soft. "You're a child. You came to me and asked for my help. Now you're getting it."

She sighs, a long, ragged sigh. Her eyes come back up to meet mine and they look grateful.

"Okay. Are you sure they'll be safe?"

I shake my head. "No. I'm not sure. There's no way to be one hundred percent certain. I thought my family was safe, but they died anyway. The point isn't to have a guarantee. It's to do everything you can, and not let fear run your life." I point toward the door. "I have a pretty lethal bodyguard out there, and she's going to go everywhere you do. And I have a team of the best--the absolute best--hunting for The Stranger. That's all I can offer you."

"So you know, then? For sure, that he's real?"

"Yes. One hundred percent."

The relief runs through her in a full-body shudder, startling me. It resembles the body language of disbelief. I realize there might be some of that mixed in there.

She puts a hand against her forehead. "Wow." She touches her cheeks with the palms of both hands, like someone trying to hold themselves together. "Wow. Sorry. It's hard to come to terms with after all this time."

"I understand."

She turns to me. "Did you go inside my house?"

"Yes."

"Did you--" Her face crumples. "Did you see what he did?"

She starts to cry. I go over and take her in my arms.

"Did you see what he did?"

"I saw," I say, and stroke her hair.

42

ELAINA HAD COOKED DINNER, AND BONNIE AND I STAYED TO EAT. Elaina worked her usual magic, turning the dining room into a place of merriment. Alan and I had been somber upon arrival; by the time dessert arrived, we'd laughed more than once and I felt loosened up and happy.

Alan had opted for a final try at chess with Bonnie. I was pretty sure it was going to be a fruitless endeavor. Elaina and I left them to it and worked together in the kitchen, a slow and amiable rinsing of dishes and filling of the dishwasher.

Elaina poured us both a glass of red wine and we sat at the island in the kitchen together and didn't say anything for a little bit. I heard Alan grumble, and imagined Bonnie smiling in reply.

"Let's talk about Bonnie's schooling," Elaina says, out of the blue.

"I have a suggestion."

"Uh, sure. Go ahead."

She swirls the wine around in her glass. "I've been thinking about this for a while. Bonnie has to go back to school, Smoky."

"I know." I sound, and feel, a little defensive.

"I'm not criticizing. I'm aware of all the circumstances. Bonnie needed time to arrive, to grieve, to normalize a little. You too. I think that time has come and gone, though, and my concern now is that your fear is the real barrier."

My first instinct is to get angry and deny, deny, deny. But Elaina's right. It's been six months. I've been a mother before, I know the drill, and yet, in that time, I haven't gotten immunization records for Bonnie, or found her a dentist, or sent her to school. When I step back from the day-to-day and view it as a whole, I'm dismayed. I've spun a cocoon for Bonnie and me. It's spacious, it is lit by love, but it has a fatal flaw: Its architecture was inspired by fear. I put a hand to my forehead.

"God. How could I have let this go on so long?"

Elaina shakes her head. "No, no, no. No blame, no shame. We review our faults, we accept the fact of them, we change for the better. That's called responsibility, and it's a lot more valuable than beating yourself up. Responsibility is active, it improves things. Blame just makes you feel bad."

I stare at my friend, dumbfounded as always by her ability to put words to the simple and the true.

"All right," I manage. "But I have to say, Elaina, I am afraid. God, the thought of her out there in the world . . ."

She interrupts me. "I'm thinking homeschooling. And I'm thinking that's something I'd really enjoy doing."

I stare at her, dumbfounded again. Homeschooling had occurred to me, of course, but I had dismissed it as I had no way to implement it. But Elaina-as-teacher . . . I realize it's a perfect solution. It deals with, well, everything. Bonnie the inquisitive and Bonnie the mute, equally. Don't forget Smoky the fearful and Smoky the neglectful.

"Really? You'd want to do that?"

She smiles. "No, I'd love to do that. I researched it on the Web, and it's not that hard." She shrugs. "I love her like I love you, Smoky. You're both family. Alan and I aren't going to have children of our own, and that's okay. It just means I have to find other ways to have children in my life. This is one of those ways."

"And Sarah?" I ask.

She nods. "And Sarah. This is one of the things I'm good at, Smoky. Dealing with children, with people, who have been hurt. So I want to do that. The same way you want to chase after killers, and probably for the same reasons: because you need to. Because you're good at it."

I ponder the echo she gives to my earlier thoughts, and smile at her.

"I think it's a great idea."

"Well, good." She gives me a kind look. "I'm pushing you on this because I know you. As long as you're not hiding from the truth of things, you won't let Bonnie down. It's just not who you are."

"Thank you."

It's all I can think of to say, but I can tell from her smile that she gets it as I meant it.

What about the deception, here? If you go to Quantico, if they aren't enough to give you the "happiness" you think you need (and how selfish and ungrateful is that, anyway?), then you'll be taking a child away from Elaina. Elaina, who's never gotten to be a mom even though you and I both know she'd be better at it than anyone we know, present company included.

Even so, I think, and for now, the voice goes quiet. We sip our wine and smile as we listen to Alan's grumbling about being beaten at chess by a girl.

It's nine-thirty and Bonnie and I are back home, foraging through the kitchen together in search of munchies. She's let me know that she wants to watch some television, and made it clear that she understands I want to continue reading Sarah's diary. I find a jar of olives and Bonnie grabs a bag of Cheetos. We head into the living room and curl into our respective, well-worn spots on the couch. I pop the cap of the olive jar and bite into an olive, feeling the salty taste of it burst into my mouth.

"Did Elaina talk to you?" I ask her, talking around the olive.

"About homeschooling?"

She nods. Yep.

"What do you think about that?"

She smiles and nods.

I think it's just fine, she's saying. I smile.

"Cool. Did she tell you about Sarah too?"

Another nod, more somber this time, layered with meaning. I understand.

"Yeah," I reply, nodding myself. "She's in bad shape. How are you with that?"

She waves her hand, a dismissive gesture.

So not a problem it's not worth asking about, that wave says. I'm not selfish, that wave says.

"Okay," I say, smiling, hoping the smile shows her that I love her. My phone rings. I check the caller ID and answer.

"Hello, James."

"VICAP requests are in. Nothing yet, but maybe by the morning. The program on Michael Kingsley's computer continues to defy all attempts to unlock it. I'm home, going to reread the diary."

I fill him in on the day. He's silent afterward. Thinking.

"You're right," he says. "It's all connected somehow. We need to get the information on the grandfather, that case from the seventies, Nicholson."

"No kidding."

I look at my trusty notes, reviewing what I've written. I grab the PERPETRATOR AKA "THE STRANGER" page. METHODOLOGY:

I add:

Continues to communicate to us. Communication is in puzzles. Why?

Why not just say what he wants to say?

I consider this.

Because he doesn't want us to understand immediately? To buy time?

Attacked Cathy Jones, but let her live so she could deliver a message. Took David Nicholson's daughter hostage for two reasons: so that Nicholson would steer the Langstrom investigation, and so that Nicholson could deliver another message. Risky.

Message from Jones--her badge and the phrase: "Symbols are only symbols."

Message from Nicholson--"It's the man behind the symbol, not the symbol, that's important," followed by his suicide. Why did Nicholson have to die? Answer: because his connection goes deeper than the Langstrom investigation. Vengeance. I reread what I've just written.

I'm just spinning my wheels here.

I put the pages aside. They're not going to help me anymore tonight. I grab the diary pages and get comfortable. I think, as I start reading, that I'm beginning to understand how Sarah's story fits into the bigger picture, not for The Stranger, but for her.

She's telling us what happened to her. That is a microcosm, a way of understanding the story of all those who've been ruined and harmed by The Stranger's actions. If we understand her pain, her story says, then we understand the Russian girl, Cathy Jones, the Nicholsons.

If we cry for her, then we cry for them. And we remember. I turn the page and continue reading.

Sarah's Story

Part Four

43

Some people are just good. Do you know what I mean? Maybe they don't have special or exciting jobs. Maybe they're not the most beautiful or the most handsome, but they're just, well, good. Desiree and Ned were like that.

They were good.

"STOP IT, PUMPKIN," SARAH SCOLDED.

The dog was trying to stick his head in between her lap and the table, hoping to catch falling crumbs or (hallelujah!) actual pieces of food. Sarah shoved the dog's monstrous noggin away.

"I don't think he's going to listen. That dog loves cake, don't ask me why," Ned said. "Come on, Pumpkin."

The pit bull left with great reluctance, stealing glances back at the cake on the table as he was ordered into the backyard. Ned returned and resumed punching candles through the frosting. Sarah had come to love Ned, just as Desiree had promised. He was a tall, lanky man, a little on the quiet side, but with eyes full of smiles. He always wore the same clothes: button-up flannel shirt, blue jeans, hiking boots. He kept his hair a little longer than was in vogue, he was inclined to meander, and had a slight scruffiness that was endearing; it spoke of a vague absentmindedness when it came to caring for his own appearance. Sarah had seen him get angry, both at her and at Desiree, but she had never felt endangered. She knew that Ned would cut off his own hands before he would ever hit either of them.

"Nine candles, gee-whiz," he said, rueful. "Better start checking for gray hairs."

Sarah smiled. "You're such a dork, Ned."

"So I've heard."

The last candle was placed just as Desiree came through the front door. Sarah noticed that she was flushed, excited. She's really happy about something.

Desiree was carrying a wrapped present, a large rectangular something, and she bustled into the kitchen, leaning the present up against the wall.

"Is that it?" Ned asked, nodding toward the present. Desiree smiled and glowed. "Yep. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get it. I can't wait until you see it, Sarah."

Sarah was mystified, in that good, birthday kind of way.

"Cake's all ready?" Desiree asked.

"I just put the last candle on."

"Well, let me wash my face and cool down and we'll have a birthday!"

Sarah smiled, nodded, watched Desiree hurry off, towing Ned behind her. She closed her eyes. It had been a good year. Ned and Desiree were great. They adored her from the start, and after a month or two of this as a constant, Sarah tossed away the last of her distrust and adored them back. Ned was away a lot, as Desiree had first told her, but he made up for it when he was home, always kind, always attentive. Desiree herself was .. . well . . . in Sarah's secret place, in the most guarded part of her heart, Sarah realized that she was beginning to love her foster-mother.

She opened her eyes, looked at the cake, at the presents on the table and the one against the wall.

I could be happy here. Am happy here.

Not everything was perfect. Sarah still had nightmares every now and then. She'd wake up some mornings weighed down with a sadness that had come out of nowhere. And although she liked her school, she'd rebuffed offers of friendship, not by refusing them outright, but by simply never following up on them. She wasn't ready for that, not yet.

Witch Watson had shown up a lot at first, but only once in the last nine months, which suited Sarah just fine. Cathy Jones had stopped by a few times, and seemed to be truly gratified that Sarah was doing well. Sarah had long ago accepted a place in Desiree's arms when comfort was needed. The one thing she still hadn't shared was her story about The Stranger. She didn't think Desiree would believe her. Sometimes, she wasn't sure she believed it herself. Maybe Cathy had been right. Maybe she had been confused.

She shook these thoughts from her head. Today was her birthday, and she planned to enjoy it.

Ned and Desiree came back.

"Ready for candles?" Desiree asked Sarah.

Sarah grinned. "Yeah!"

Ned had a lighter, and he lit each candle. They sang a raucous, somewhat off-key "Happy Birthday."

"Make a wish, honey, and blow!" Desiree cried.

Sarah closed her eyes.

I wish . . . I could stay here for good.

She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and blew out every flame. Ned and Desiree clapped.

"I always knew you were full of hot air," Ned joked.

"So, do you want to eat cake first, or open your presents?"

Sarah could tell that Desiree was bursting for her to open the mystery present.

"Presents first."

Desiree snatched the rectangle from its place against the wall and handed it to Sarah.

Sarah hefted it. It was big, but it was light. A painting, or maybe a photograph. She began to tear the paper away. When she saw the top edge of the frame, her heart jumped.

Could it . . . ?

She tore the rest of the paper off as fast as her hands would allow. She saw what it was, and stopped breathing. Her chest hurt. It was the painting her mother had done for her. The baby in the woods, the face in the clouds. Sarah looked up at Desiree, wordless.

"I could tell how much you loved that painting when you told me about it, honey. And you know what? It turns out that Cathy Jones packed away some of the stuff in your bedroom after they . . . well, after the police were done with things. Just some photos and toys and some other stuff. She kept it in storage for you so it wouldn't get lost. That is the one, right?"

Sarah nodded, still wordless. Her heart was thudding in her chest. Her eyes burned.

"Oh my God," she finally said. "Thank you so so so so much. I--"

She looked at Desiree, who smiled, at Ned, whose eyes softened. "I don't know what to say."

Desiree's hand touched Sarah's hair, moved a lock of it back behind the young girl's ear. "You're welcome, honey." Desiree was beaming. Ned coughed, and held out an envelope. "This is the other part of that present, Sarah. It's a . . . well, a kind of gift certificate."

Sarah wiped the tears from her cheeks and took the envelope. She still felt overwhelmed, a little bit giddy, and her hands trembled as she opened it. Inside was a simple white card that said Happy Birthday on the front. She flipped the card open and read the inside. Redeemable by Sarah, it said, for one adoption. Sarah's mouth fell open in shock. Her head snapped up and she saw that while Desiree and Ned were smiling, they looked nervous too. Almost scared.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to," Ned said, his voice soft.

"But if you do, Desiree and I would like to adopt you permanently."

What's happening to me? Why can't I talk?

She felt as if she was being rolled by an ocean wave. She was a boat hitting the top of a swell and then sliding back down the trough, only to be picked back up again.

What's wrong?

It came to her, a sudden clarity. This was the part of her that she'd kept buried, hidden, locked in a vault. A place filled with Nothings and Puppysheads. Frozen agony, thawed in an instant. It was crashing through her inner barriers and it was filled with thunder and thorns. She couldn't speak, but she managed to nod at them, and then she began to wail. It was a wordless, terrible sound. It caused Ned's eyes to shine and Desiree's arms to open. Sarah fled into them and wept three years of tears.

44

SARAH AND DESIREE WERE LOUNGING ON THE COUCH WHILE NED muttered in the home office as he paid the bills. Cake had been eaten. Even Pumpkin had gotten a lick of frosting that Sarah had snuck to him. He was curled up on the floor, his feet twitching as he dreamed a doggy dream.

"I'm so happy that you want to stay with us, Sarah," Desiree said.

Sarah looked at her foster-mother. Desiree looked happy. The happiest that Sarah had ever seen her. This filled her heart with joy. Sarah was wanted. No, more than that--she was needed. Ned and Desiree needed her to make their life complete.

The fact of this filled a void inside her that had seemed bottomless. A soul cavern stuffed with darkness and pain.

"It was my wish," Sarah said.

"What do you mean?"

"My birthday wish. What I wished for before I blew out the candles on my cake."

Desiree raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Wow. Is that spooky, or what?"

Sarah smiled. "I think it's kind of magic."

"Magic." Desiree nodded. "I like that."

"Desiree?" Sarah watched the floor, struggling with something.

"What is it, honey?"

"I--is it weird that this makes me miss my mom and dad? I mean--

I'm so happy about this. Why would it make me sad?"

Desiree sighed and touched Sarah's cheek. "Oh, honey. I think . . ."

She paused, contemplative. "I think it's because we're not them. I mean, we love you, and you've made us feel whole, like a family again, but we're not a replacement for your mom and dad. We're a new thing in your heart, not a substitute for them. Does that make sense?"

"I guess so." She gave Desiree a probing look. "So does it make you sad too? About your baby, I mean."

"A little. Mostly it makes me happy."

Sarah thought about this.

"It mostly makes me happy too."

She moved over so she could be cuddled by her new mother. They turned on the television, and Ned came in not long after and they all laughed together even though the shows weren't that funny. Sarah recognized the easy, comfortable rhythm.

This is home.

"Here?" Ned asked.

Sarah nodded. "Right there."

Ned pounded the nail into the wall, and hung the painting. He stood back, giving it a critical eye. "Looks straight."

The painting faced the foot of her bed, just as it had in her old bedroom. Sarah couldn't take her eyes off it.

"Your mother was talented, Sarah. It's really beautiful."

"She used to make something for me every year, for my birthday. This one was my favorite." She turned her head to Ned. "Thank you for helping bring it back to me."

Ned smiled and averted his eyes. He was shy about praise. Sarah could tell he was happy.

"You're welcome. You should really thank Cathy." He frowned, coughed once. "And, uh, thanks for . . . you know. Letting us adopt you." His eyes came up to meet hers. "I want you to know that it's something we both wanted. It means as much to me as it does to Desiree."

Sarah studied the scruffy, kindhearted truck driver. She knew he'd always be awkward about expressing his love, but she also knew that it was something she could be certain of.

"I'm glad," she said. "Because I feel the same way. I love Desiree, Ned. But I love you too."

A spark jumped in his gray eyes at her words. He looked both wounded and joyful.

"You miss your baby more than Desiree does, don't you?"

Ned stared at her. Blinked once and looked away. His eyes found the painting. He continued to look at it as he spoke.

"After Diana died, I almost quit living. I couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't work. I felt like the world had ended for me." He frowned. "My dad was a drunk, and I promised myself that I'd never touch the stuff. But after a month of trying to stop hurting, I went out and bought a bottle of scotch." He looked at Sarah, smiled one of his gentle smiles. "It was Desiree that came to the rescue. Grabbed the bottle, broke it in the sink, and then pushed me and yelled at me until I broke down and did what I needed to do all along."

"She made you cry," Sarah said.

"That's right. And I did. I cried and I cried, and then I cried some more. And the next morning, I started living again." He spread his hands. "Desiree loved me enough to save me even when she was hurting too. So the answer to your question is no. Desiree misses Diana more than I do, not less. Because she's got more ability to love than anyone I've ever known." He looked uncomfortable and awkward again. "Anyway, I guess it's time for you to go to bed."

"Ned?"

"What is it, honey?"

"Do you love me back?"

The moment hung in silence. Ned smiled, a beautiful, brilliant smile that swept his awkwardness away.

That's Mommy's smile, Sarah marveled. Sun on the roses. He walked over and gave Sarah a fierce hug, filled with his strength and his softness and a father's roaring promise to protect.

"You bet I do."

A loud "woof " broke the hug. Sarah looked down and laughed. Pumpkin was there, staring up at them.

"Yeah, it's bedtime, puppyhead," she said.

Ned gave the dog a faux-scowl. "Still a traitor, I see," he said. Pumpkin used to sleep in Ned and Desiree's room. He'd slept in Sarah's bed from the first night.

Sarah helped the dog up onto her bed. She climbed under the covers. Ned gazed down at her.

"Want me to get Desiree to tuck you in?" he asked.

"No, that's okay. You can do it."

Sarah knew that Ned would like these words. She liked meaning them. She loved him, he loved her back. Him tucking her in was just fine. At home, it had usually been Daddy who'd said good night. She missed this ritual.

"Door open a crack?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

"Good night, Sarah."

"Good night, Ned."

He took one last look at the painting he'd hung for her, and shook his head.

"That's really something."

Sarah was dreaming of her father. There were no words in the dream, just him, her, and smiles. The dream was filled with a simple happiness. The air trembled, filled by a perfect note stroked from a handmade violin. The note was an impossibility of perfection, a dead-on expression of all the things the heart could contain, and it could only be heard in a dream. Sarah didn't know who it was that played it, and she didn't care. She looked into her father's eyes and smiled, and he looked back and smiled and the note became the wind and the sun and the rain. The music ended when her father spoke. You couldn't speak and hear the note. It had to stand alone.

"Did you hear that?" he asked.

"What, Daddy?"

"Sounds like . . . growling."

Sarah frowned. "Growling?" She cocked her head and strained to hear, and yes, she could hear it now, a low rumble, like a muscle car idling at a stoplight. "What do you think it is?"

But he was gone, along with the wind and the sun and the rain. No more smiles, now. This was dark clouds and thunder. She looked up at the sky in her dream and the clouds growled, louder this time, so loud they shook her bones and--

Sarah woke up to Pumpkin, who stared at the door of her room and growled. Sarah stroked the dog's head.

"What is it, Pumpkin?"

The dog's ears twitched at the sound of her voice, but its eyes remained focused on the door. The rumble was becoming louder, a roar in the making.

The next sound Sarah heard sent the cold of space spiking through her, a cold that froze on touch, that took the warmth at her core and turned it into a glacier.

" 'I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself . . .' " the voice said. And the door to her room flew open.

And Pumpkin roared.

"Happy birthday, Sarah."

I made myself tell it all when it came to my mom and dad. They de- served that. It's where things began, after all. I can't do it with Desiree and Ned. I can't. Not even in third person. I think it's enough that you know who they were, the kind of people they were, the goodness in them.

He killed them, that's all you need to know. He shot Ned dead and he beat Desiree to death in front of me and he did it all because I loved them and they loved me back and because my pain is his justice, whatever that means.

If you really want to know what it looked like, what it felt like, then do this: Think of something ugly, the ugliest thing you can think of--like roasting a baby on an open fire--and then chuckle about it. Then real- ize what you're chuckling at, and what that means, and you've taken a turn into what I felt like then.

He did it to open up a big blackness inside of me, to kill hope and to show me how dangerous it is for me to love someone. It worked. For a minute, while I was with Desiree and Ned, I thought I might get to be part of a family. I've never felt that way again. But God . . . Desiree fought him. She fought him for me, for all the good it did her.

God . . .

I really need to stop saying that. I mean, come on, that's one thing I learned for sure, that night.

There is no God.

He killed them and I watched and I died with them, but I didn't really die, I lived and wished that I'd died, but life went on and I did the only thing left to do.

I called Cathy Jones.

I called her and she came. She was the only one who always came. She also believed me after that night, and she was the only one who ever did that too.

I love Cathy, by the way. I always will. She did the best she could.

45

"YOU'RE BAD LUCK, PRINCESS," KAREN WATSON SAID AS THEY drove away from Ned and Desiree's. "Some people just have bad luck. Yours rubs off on the people around you."

Sarah sneered. "Maybe I'll get really lucky someday, and my bad luck will rub off on you, Ms. Watson."

Karen glanced over at Sarah. Her eyes narrowed. "Keep talking like that and it'll be a long time before I let you back into any foster home."

Sarah turned back to the side window. "I don't care."

"Really? Fine. Then you can stay in a group home till you're eighteen."

"I said I don't care."

Sarah kept her gaze fixed on the scenery rolling by. Karen felt dismissed. This made her angry. Who the hell did this kid think she was? Didn't she understand what a burden she was?

Screw it. She'd dismiss Sarah right back.

"You can rot in there then, for all I care."

Sarah didn't reply. Karen Watson had gotten under her skin, as always, but only for a moment. The numbness had settled back in, bringing that thousand-pound weight along with it. Sarah had been taken to an emergency room and examined. She had a mild concussion (whatever that was), which meant she wasn't supposed to go to sleep. Everything else was bruised and hurt, but no major damage had been done. Not on the outside, at least. Ned, Desiree, Pumpkin. Mommy, Daddy, Buster.

Your love is death.

She was starting to believe that this was true. Everyone she'd ever loved was gone forever.

A twinge of uncertainty.

Except for Cathy. And Theresa. And maybe Doreen, if she was still alive.

Sarah sighed.

Theresa was in jail. Surely that was enough for The Stranger, for now. She could decide what to do about her foster-sister when she got out. As for Cathy, she was a policewoman, she should be able to keep herself safe, right? Right?

She'd have to worry about that later. She had other things to concentrate on, for now. Sarah had learned the lessons of the group home from her last stay there. She had no intention of starting out at the bottom of the food chain again.

Janet was still skinny, and still running things at the home. She remained oblivious to the perils of the place. Janet was the worst kind of do-gooder: one who was incapable of recognizing evil. She gave Sarah a sympathetic nod.

"Hi, Sarah."

"Hi."

"I know what happened. Are you in a lot of pain?"

The answer was yes, but Sarah shook her head.

"I'm okay. I'd just like to lie down."

Janet nodded. "You can't go to sleep, though. You know that?"

"Yeah."

"Do you need help with your bag?"

"No, thanks."

Janet led her down the familiar hallways. Nothing had changed in a year.

Probably nothing has changed in the last ten years.

"Here you go. Only two doors down from your old room."

"Thanks, Janet."

"Sure." The skinny woman turned to walk away.

"Janet? Is Kirsten still here?"

Janet stopped and looked back at Sarah. "Kirsten was killed by another girl three months ago. They got into a fight and things got out of hand."

Sarah stared at Janet and swallowed once.

"Oh," she managed. "Okay."

The skinny woman looked worried. "Are you going to be all right?"

Sarah had a hundred pounds of iron sitting on the top of her head. Numbness. Hug it tight.

"I'm fine."

Sarah had unpacked her things and settled into her bunk to wait. She'd arrived in the late afternoon; the dorm would remain pretty much empty until early evening. That's when she knew she'd have to make her move.

Her head still ached, but at least she wasn't nauseous anymore. Sarah hated barfing.

Nobody likes it, dummy.

Someone who'd had a more normal life might worry about talking to themselves so much. The thought never occurred to Sarah; when you were alone as much as she was, you talked to yourself to keep from going crazy, not because you were.

Numbness cloaked her, soaked her, bonded with her DNA. Sarah felt that she'd crossed a threshold of pain. Sadness, grief--these emotions had to be suppressed. They'd grown too large to let roam free. They'd eat her up if she let them out of their cages. Other emotions were allowed. Like anger. Like rage. She could feel them building inside her. A well had been dug in her soul and it was filling up with darkish, violent things. A beast of a dog lapped at the well and wouldn't stop growling. She wondered how long she could keep it leashed, or if she could at all.

With all of it had come a tectonic shift in pragmatism. Survival was her god. All else was illusion.

I'm changing. Just like he wanted me to.

How?

I think I could kill someone now if I had to. I couldn't have done that when I was six.

Happy birthday.

She twirled a strand of hair in her fingers and smiled an empty smile.

I broke a girl's finger and I took her bunk, and that was that. I was top dog of the room again, queen of all I surveyed. Hey, don't make that face.

I'm not proud of what I did, but I did what I had to. Besides, I have a lot more in common with that "me" at nine than I do with the "me" at six. The "me" at six is long gone and buried deep. 46

When I look back and write this, I think Cathy becomes my mirror. A way to look at how I was through someone else's eyes. I wonder: Did she think these things? Or am I putting my own words in her mouth? Maybe a little bit of both? Maybe Cathy was Cathy, but in these pages, Cathy is also the me-now looking back at the me-then. Hea-vy, man. . . .

CATHY WAS DISMAYED BY WHAT SHE SAW HAPPENING WITH

Sarah. But what else was new?

It was Sarah's eleventh birthday. Cathy had come by with a simple offering--a cupcake and a single candle. Sarah had smiled at this, but Cathy could tell she was being polite.

What bothered Cathy the most was Sarah's eyes. They weren't open and expressive they way they'd once been. They were full of walls and blank spaces and watchfulness. The eyes of a poker player, or a prisoner. Cathy was familiar with eyes like this; she saw them on hardened street-hookers and career criminals. They said: I know how things work, I'm watching you, and Don't even think about taking what's mine. Cathy had recognized other changes over the last two years. She knew that Sarah was the "head girl" of her dorm and she had a pretty good guess as to how that had come about. The other girls deferred to Sarah. Sarah's attitude toward them was dismissive. It was prison mentality, the rule of power and violence. Sarah seemed to have learned it well.

Why are you surprised? This place is might-makes-right in spades. Cathy was frustrated by her own inability to provide hope. She hadn't been able to convince anyone else of her belief in Sarah's story of The Stranger. Truth be told, lying in bed at night, she wasn't sure she'd completely convinced herself. She'd tried, she'd failed, and while Sarah had told her it was no big deal, Cathy knew this was a baldfaced lie. It mattered. Cathy had been doing what she could. She'd gotten copies of the case files on the deaths of Sarah's parents, and the murders of Ned and Desiree. She'd spent many nights after work poring over them, looking for hints and inconsistencies. She'd even found some. In this way, at least, she and Sarah still connected. Life came into those hard eyes when they discussed the cases. The fact that Cathy believed her was important to Sarah. It mattered.

But we're losing you, aren't we, Sarah? This place and your life are killing you off. Right in front of my eyes.

"I have some news about Theresa," Cathy said.

A spark of interest.

"What?"

"She's getting paroled in three weeks."

Sarah looked away. "That's nice." Her voice sounded faint.

"She wants to see you."

"No!" The word snapped out with a vehemence that startled the cop.

Cathy waited, chewed her lip.

"Do you mind if I ask why?"

All the blankness and hardness and distance vanished, replaced by a naked desperation that made Cathy's heart ache.

"Because of him, " Sarah whispered, her voice urgent. "The Stranger. If he knows I love her, then he'll kill her."

"Sarah, I--"

Sarah reached across the table, grabbing Cathy's hands with her own. "Promise me, Cathy. Promise me that you'll make her stay away."

The cop stared at the eleven-year-old for a long moment before nodding. "Okay, Sarah," she said in a quiet voice. "Okay. What do you want me to tell her?"

"Tell her I don't want to see her while I'm in here. She'll understand."

"You're sure?"

Sarah smiled, a tired smile. "I'm sure." She bit her lower lip. "But tell her . . . it won't be long. When I get out of this place, I'll find a way to get in touch with her. A way we can be safe."

The smile and the spark and the urgency all vanished. The blankness was back. Sarah stood up, grabbing the cupcake. "I have to go,"

she said.

"You don't want to light the candle?"

"Nope."

Cathy watched Sarah walk away. The young girl walked straight and tall, a walk that said she was sure of herself without having to double check. She looked small to Cathy. The swagger only emphasized it.

Sarah lay back on her bunk, bit into the cupcake, and eyed the envelope. It was addressed to her, care of the group home. There was no return address, just a stamp and postmark. It was the first piece of mail she'd ever gotten, and she didn't like it. Just open it.

Okay. Maybe it's from Theresa.

She thought about Theresa almost every day. Sometimes she dreamed about her foster-sister, fantasy dreams where they sailed or flew away together. The places they came to were never dark and always had signs posted that proclaimed: No Sorrow Or Monsters Allowed.

Those dreams left Sarah wishing she could sleep forever. Theresa was the hub around which Sarah's only wheel of hope spun. She ripped the envelope open. It contained a simple white card. On the front it said, Thinking of you on your birthday. She frowned and flipped up the front. Inside was drawn a picture of a domino, next to it the words Be A Wild Thing.

The frosting from the cupcake went sour in her mouth. A chill ran through her body from head to toe.

This is from him.

She knew it to be true. It didn't matter that he'd never sent her anything before this. It didn't need any explanation at all. It just was. She stared at the card for a moment longer before putting it back in the envelope. She placed it under her pillow and resumed eating the cupcake.

I am turning into a Wild Thing.

Come and see me again and I'll prove it to you. Her smile was joyless.

One nice thing, she thought, it can't get any worse. That's something. I know what a silly thing that was to think now. Of course it could be worse. A lot worse. And it was.

Karen Watson ended up in jail. I don't really know why, but I'm not surprised. She was evil. She hated kids and she liked being able to fuck up kids' lives. She was a big old vampire, but instead of sucking blood, she sucked souls, and someone finally caught her doing it. She made sure all the other homes I went to were bad ones. Bad peo- ple. In some places they hit me. In a few places, they touched me, and that was bad, real bad, but we won't talk about that, no way, uh-uh. I guess Theresa tried.

Even so, nothing was ever quite as bad as when Desiree and Ned died. I've thought about it a lot, and that was really the beginning of the end for me. It started with Mom and Dad and Buster, and it ended with Desiree and Ned and Pumpkin. Everything since then, good or bad, has just been me walking through a dream.

Cathy offered to adopt me once, but I didn't let her. I was afraid, you know? That if Cathy took me in, that would be the end of her.

But Cathy disappeared later anyway. They told me she'd gotten hurt, but they wouldn't tell me how, or who'd done it. She didn't answer her phone when I called, and she never called me back. I let that drop into the big black pool, like everything else. That's what I call it--the big black pool. It's what's inside me. It started to fill up the day after Desiree and Ned died. It's thick and stinky and it feels like oil. But it's kind of cool too, because you can drop things that hurt into it, and they sink and disappear forever. Cathy not calling hurt, so I dropped that into the big black pool. Bye-bye.

One thing I didn't drop into the pool was what happened to Karen Watson, when that cunt went to jail. I know, I know, cunt is the worst word ever, especially for a girl to say, but I can't help it. Karen Watson was a cunt. I mean, come on, the word was practically invented for her!

I hated her, and I hoped she'd die in jail. Sometimes I dreamed about someone sticking a knife in her and cutting her stomach open, like a fish. She flopped around and screamed and bled. I always woke up smiling after I had that dream.

One day, she actually did die. Someone slit her throat, from ear to ear. I smiled till I thought my cheeks would split open. Then I cried, and The Crazy blinked a few times and it cried too. Black, watering-hole tears. Bad water, baby, it's all bad water now.

As for me, I'd always end up back in the group home. I had a rep from before, so not too many girls tried to mess with me. I kept to myself. Which is for the best, because I'm pretty much over, you know? I get this feeling sometimes, like I'm sitting naked at the north pole, but I'm not cold, because I can't feel anything anyway. And I'm looking down at the big black pool, watching it bubble. Every now and then, hands shoot up out of it, and sometimes I recognize them. The Stranger left me alone for a few years. I don't know, I guess he was keeping an eye on me. So long as the homes were bad, I guess he was fine.

I got another card on my fourteenth birthday. It said, I'll be seeing you. That's all. I woke up that night screaming and I couldn't stop. I just screamed and screamed and screamed. They had to drag me off and strap me down to a bed and give me some drugs. That time I was the one that got dropped into the big black pool. Blurp. Bye-bye. The Kingsleys decided to foster me, and I'm not sure why I didn't fight it. I'm finding it hard, these days, to feel like fighting anything. Mostly I float. I float and I shake sometimes and every now and then I talk to myself, then I go back to floating. Oh yeah--and dropping things into the big black pool. I've been spending a lot of time, lately, dropping things into it. I think I've just about got everything now. I want to be an empty room, with white walls. I'm almost there. The black death-bees have almost become the light.

I'm writing this story because it might be the last chance I have to get this all down before I drop myself into the big black pool, forever. I don't really want to go there, but it's harder and harder to keep moving every day, and The Crazy, it seems to want to come up from the watering hole a lot more often. There's something, though, a small, stubborn part of me that still remembers being six. It talks to me less and less, but when it does, it tells me to write things down, and to find a way to give it to you. I don't think you're going to be able to save me, Smoky Barrett. I'm afraid I've spent too much time at the watering hole, too much time writ- ing stories I set on fire. But maybe, just maybe--you can get him.

And drop him into the real big black pool.

That's about it. The last sprint on the white and crinkly. A Ruined Life?

Pretty close, I guess.

I don't dream of my mom and dad anymore. I did have a dream about Buster the other night. It caught me by surprise. I woke up and I almost thought I could feel where his head had been, lying on my tummy.

But Buster's dead, along with the rest of them. The biggest change is the deepest change:

I don't hope anymore.

THE END?

I finish this last line of Sarah's diary, and I put a hand to my eyes and this time I find my tears. Bonnie comes over to me and takes my other hand in hers and rubs it, offering comfort. I wipe my eyes after a moment.

"Sorry, babe," I say. "I read something that made me sad. Sorry."

She gives me one of those smiles that says, It's okay, we're alive, I'm just happy you're here with me.

"Okay," I say, forcing a smile. I still feel pretty bleak. Bonnie catches my eye again. She taps her head. This one I know without having to think about it.

"You had an idea?"

She nods. Points to the wall, where a picture of Alexa hangs. Points at the ceiling above our heads. It takes me a moment.

"You had an idea about what to do with Alexa's room?"

She smiles, nods. Yes.

"Tell me, sweetheart."

She indicates herself, mimes sleeping, shakes her head.

"You don't want to sleep there."

Quick nod. Right.

She mimes holding something, moving it up and down in brushing motions, and, as sometimes happens, I get her full meaning in a flood and a flash.

When Bonnie had first made it clear to me that she wanted some watercolors, I was overjoyed. The therapeutic possibilities were obvious; Bonnie was mute, but perhaps she'd speak through her brush. She painted scenes bright and scenes dark, beautiful moonlit nights, days washed through with rain and grays. There was no trend in her imagery beyond the fact that all were vivid, regardless of subject. My favorite, a depiction of the desert under a blazing sun, was a mix of stark beauty. There was hot, bright, yellow sand. There was blue, forever, cloudless sky. There was a single cactus, standing alone in all that emptiness, straight and strong and tall. It didn't seem to need comfort or company. It was a confident, aloof cactus. It could take the sun and the heat and lack of water and it was fine, thank you very much, just fine. I had to wonder if it represented Bonnie. She'd since graduated from watercolors to oils and acrylics. She spent a day each week painting, intense, her concentration almost furious. I had watched her without her knowing it, and I'd been struck by her total immersion. I could tell that the world disappeared when she painted. Her focus narrowed to the canvas in front of her, the shouting in her mind, the motion of her hand. She generally painted without stopping, a continuous dead run.

Maybe it was the act that was therapeutic. Perhaps the paintings were secondary. Maybe it was just the doing that was important. Whatever the truth, the paintings were good. Bonnie was no Rembrandt, but she had talent. Her work had a vitality, a boldness that suffused each painting with agelessness.

"You want to turn Alexa's room into a studio?"

Bonnie has been painting in the library, and it's beginning to overflow with paper and canvas and mess. She nods, happy but cautious. She reaches over to me, takes my hand, gives me a look of concern. Again, understanding, that flash and flood.

"But only if it's okay with me, huh?"

Her smile is soft. I give her one in return, touch her cheek.

"I think it's a great idea."

She lets the caution drop away from her smile. The shine of it starts to work its way into my darker recesses.

She indicates the TV and gives me an inquisitive look. She's been watching the cartoon channel.

Want to watch with me? she's asking.

That sounds about right.

"You bet."

I open up my arms so she can snuggle into me, and we watch together, and I try to let her sunshine banish all that internal rain. Be the cactus, I think. We got sun. To hell with the sand.

47

IT'S MORNING AND I'M TRYING TO CALM SARAH DOWN. She'd met Elaina, and a new look of horror and terror had crossed her face. She'd started to back away, toward the door.

"No," she says, her eyes wide, shining with unspent tears. "No way. Not here."

I understand what's happening. She's recognized the goodness of Elaina, understood it in a flash, and she sees Desiree and her mother and deaths yet to come.

"Sarah. Honey. Look at me," I say, my voice soothing. She continues to stare at Elaina.

"No way. Not her. I can't be responsible for that."

Elaina steps forward, brushing me aside. The look on her face is a mix of compassion and pain. Her voice, when she speaks, is gentle, so gentle.

"Sarah. I want you here. Are you listening to me? I know the risks, and I want you here."

Sarah continues to stare at Elaina, no longer speaking, but shaking her head, back and forth, back and forth. Elaina points at her own baldness.

"See that? That was cancer. I beat cancer. And you know what else?

Six months ago a man came and he grabbed me and Bonnie and he meant to kill us. We beat him too." She indicates the group that's here, me, Alan, Bonnie, herself. "We beat him together."

"No," Sarah moans.

Now it is Bonnie who strides forward. She looks up at me, she points to herself. I frown at her, puzzled, trying to understand. She points at herself again, and then points at Sarah. Everyone watches, transfixed. It takes me a moment, and then I get it.

"You want me to tell her about you?"

A nod.

"You sure?"

A nod.

I face Sarah. "Bonnie's mother, Annie, was my best friend. A man--

the same one who later tried to kill Elaina and Bonnie--killed Annie, right in front of Bonnie. Then he tied Bonnie to her mother's dead body. She was like that for three days. Until I found her."

Sarah's stare is now reserved for Bonnie.

"And you know where he is now?" Alan says. "He's dead. We're still here. We've all been through stuff, Sarah. You don't have to worry about us--let us worry about us. Let us worry about you. This is my home, and I want you here too."

I can sense her not so much faltering as yearning. Bonnie is the one who bridges the gulf. She walks over to Sarah and takes her hand. The moment hangs and we wait it out.

Sarah's shoulders sag.

Sarah doesn't speak. She just nods. I am reminded of Bonnie, and as I think it, my foster-daughter catches my eye and gives me a sad smile.

"Let's not forget me," Kirby says, unable to remain silent any longer. "I'm here, and I'm loaded for bear. Giant, mutant bear." She grins, showing all those white teeth and lets those leopard eyes flicker.

"If the cuckoo-bird shows up here, he's cuckoo for sure."

There's no freshly ground coffee this morning, but at least it's stopped raining.

Everyone is here in the outer office again, facing me. No one looks as fresh as they did yesterday. Not even Callie. She's immaculate, as always, but her eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion. Assistant Director Jones comes through the door, his own cup of coffee in his hands. He doesn't apologize for holding us up, and none of us expect him to. He's the boss. Being late is his prerogative.

"Go ahead," he says.

"Right," I say. "Let's start with you, Alan."

I knew that Alan had come back over late last night to dig through the Langstroms' lives.

"First things first, Grandpa Langstrom. Well, he was Linda's father, so he was actually Grandpa Walker. Tobias Walker."

"Hold it," AD Jones says, putting down his cup of coffee. "Did you really just say Tobias Walker?"

"Yes, sir."

"Holy shit."

Everyone turns to look at him. His face is grim.

"I gave you that list this morning, Agent Thorne. The police and agents who were assigned to the trafficking task force. Take a look."

Callie scans the page in front of her. Stops.

"Tobias Walker was on the LAPD side of the task force."

The sensation I feel running through me is overwhelming. Unreality mixed with electric excitement.

"Another name you'll recognize," she says. "Dave Nicholson."

"Nicholson?" AD Jones asks, frowning. "LAPD, big guy. Good cop. What about him?"

I give him the abridged version of yesterday's events. His shock is acute.

"Suicide?! And his daughter was taken hostage?" He goes to grab his coffee, thinks better of it, runs a hand through his hair. I can't tell if he's dismayed or enraged. Probably both.

An idea is coming toward me, running to me, big enough to blacken my mental horizon. A rising sun of realization.

"What if . . . ?"

Everyone looks at me, questioning. Everyone, I notice, but James. He's staring off, transfixed.

Seeing the same thing?

Maybe. Probably.

"Just listen," I say. I can hear the excitement in my own voice. "We have a task force that failed, probably due to internal corruption. We have a motive of revenge. We have some key messages. The one to Cathy Jones, along with her gold shield: Symbols are only symbols. The one to Nicholson: It's the man behind the symbol, not the symbol, that's im- portant. Combine that with what we know--what does it tell us?"

None of them are fast enough for James. He's there, he's caught up with me. Boats and water, rivers and rain.

"He's referencing the corruption. Just because someone wears a badge, it doesn't mean they're not a bad guy. Symbols are just symbols."

Understanding lights up Alan's eyes. "Right, right. We missed the boat. Revenge was the motive. But it wasn't the traffickers he wanted to punish the most. That's why Vargas got off easy. He wanted the task-force members. Whoever it was that sold out that safe house and those kids."

Silence. Everyone taking this in, everyone nodding at different times. The ring of truth.

"Sir," I ask AD Jones, "what do you remember about Tobias Walker?"

The Assistant Director rubs his face. "Rumors, that's what I remember. He was even more of a dinosaur than Haliburton. Nasty guy. Racist. Carried a blackjack, that kind of thing. Really liked his phone books and rubber hoses. He was the one they looked at the hardest after the attack on the safe house."

"Why?"

"He'd been investigated for suspected graft three times prior by LAPD Internal Affairs. Beat it every time, but the rumors persisted, including a rumor that he was in the pockets of organized crime. Nothing anyone could ever prove. He died of lung cancer in 1983."

"Obviously, our perp is convinced that they were more than just rumors," James notes.

"Who else?" I say. "What happened to Haliburton, sir?"

The Assistant Director's face goes ashen. "In the past, I would have said he killed himself and his wife, but under the circumstances . . ."

"Do you know the details?"

"It happened in 1998. He'd been retired for quite a while. He was in his late sixties, kept himself busy doing whatever it is you do when you're retired. Probably continued dabbling with his poetry."

"Poetry?" I interrupt.

"It was the thing that made Haliburton human. His contradiction. He was a very conservative guy. Fire-and-brimstone churchgoer, didn't trust anyone with hair past their ears, bought all his suits at Sears. That kind of thing. He was harsh and he was judgmental. Never cracked a joke. But he wrote poetry. And he didn't mind sharing it. Some of it was pretty good."

I tell him about The Stranger's tale of an amateur poet and his wife.

"Oh man," he says, shaking his head in disbelief. "This just keeps getting better and better. Haliburton shot his wife and then shot himself. At least that's what we always thought."

"What about a 'student of philosophy'? Is there anyone on either of the task forces that might fit that description?"

"It doesn't ring any bells."

"Any other untimely deaths?"

"There were three of us here. Haliburton, myself, and Jacob Stern. Stern retired to Israel in . . . sometime in the late eighties. He was another old-timer. I never heard anything about him after that. The LAPD had Walker, Nicholson, and a guy from Vice by the name of Roberto Gonzalez. We know about Walker and Nicholson--but I don't have any information on Gonzalez. He was a young cop, bilingual. From what I remember, he was decent enough."

"We're going to have to follow up on him and Stern," I say.

"The big question now," Alan observes, "is the same question as before, but we've just narrowed the playing field: Who is The Stranger, and why does he have such a hard-on for the task-force members?"

"I have another," Callie says. She glances at AD Jones. "No offense, sir, but why did you get to live?"

"I think the fact that you're an Assistant Director is the answer,"

James says. "I don't know that it made him cross you off his list, but it might make him save you for last. Killing an AD--that would draw a lot of attention. He might not be ready for that much scrutiny."

"Comforting," AD Jones replies.

"Back to Alan's question," I say. "Logic dictates he'd be a child who was victimized by the trafficking ring. He can't be a relative."

"Why?" Alan asks, and then answers his own question. "Because of the scarring on the feet."

"Correct."

I consider this. "Callie, did you find anything going through the Langstrom house that might be helpful?"

"I spent a very long day and night there with Gene. We found lots of dust, but nothing forensically probative. The antidepressants Linda Langstrom had weren't prescribed by the family physician, but by a physician located on the other side of town."

"She went out of her way to hide them," I note.

"Yes. But she never took any of them."

I frown. "Does that mean anything to anyone?"

No one replies.

"James? News about the boy's computer?"

"No."

I think, trying to come up with some magic. Nothing.

"Our most potent avenue of inquiry, then, is the trust." I relate my conversation with Ellen. "We need that subpoena. Today."

"Cathy Jones can do that for you," AD Jones says. "She should be able to testify that the Langstroms were probably murdered by a third party. That's a priority." He tosses his cup in the trash can and heads toward the door. "Keep me apprised." He stops, looks back. "Oh and, Smoky? Catch this guy, will you? I prefer to stay breathing."

"You heard the man," I say. "Callie and Alan, that goes to you guys. James, I want you to find out what, if anything, has happened to the two other names on that list. Stern and Gonzalez."

Everyone gets into motion, hunters with the scent.

48

"ROBERTO GONZALEZ WAS MURDERED IN HIS HOME IN 1997," James intones. "He was tortured, castrated, and his genitals were placed in his mouth."

"Sounds like the description he gave of the 'student of philosophy,' " I murmur. "What else?"

"Stern appears to be alive and well. I alerted the Crisis Management Unit, they're going to get in touch with the Israeli authorities and put him under guard."

"I agree with your theory about AD Jones--but why Stern? Why'd he get to live?"

James shrugs. "It could be purely geographic. Too far away, so get to him last."

"Maybe." I chew on my lower lip. "You know," I say, "there's another avenue we haven't even looked at."

"What's that?"

" 'Mr. You Know Who.' The guy Vargas mentioned in his video clip. I'm assuming he's supposed to be the man-in-charge. Wouldn't he be a prime target for The Stranger?"

"We should leave that alone for now."

"Why?"

"Because it's a question that may never get answered. They didn't find him in 1979 with a task force. Why should we think that we'll find him today?"

"For one thing, we're not corrupt."

He shakes his head. "That's beside the point. Yes, I think he was tipped off back then, and yes, I believe someone protected him, or at least his interests. But I don't think it was a big conspiracy, not at the law-enforcement level. It's hard enough to corrupt a cop, no matter what the public at large thinks. It's even harder to get a cop, or an agent, to get into bed with a child trafficker. No. This was the work of one person on that task force, two at the most."

"Walker?"

"He's the likely suspect. The thing that bothers me, though, is the fact that the whole network just seemed to disappear. It's as if it rolled itself up overnight. No more kids with scars on their feet. That bothers me."

"Why? The bad guys were being cautious."

"No. Cautious is what they were already doing. Having someone on the inside. Cautious would be finding a new pipeline and a new market. Closing shop altogether? Criminals get smarter, they don't just give up on their business."

"That's not our concern. For all we know, they never stopped. Maybe they just got smarter, or moved their business elsewhere. Hell, sexual tourism has been growing for years--maybe they set up shop in their home country and got rid of the risk altogether."

James shrugs, but I know this doesn't satisfy him. He's a puzzlesolver. He doesn't like unanswered questions, whether they're relevant to our investigation or not.

"He's not a sibling, you know," James says.

The Stranger, he means.

"I know. It's all too personal for that. He experienced something bad, he didn't just observe it happening to a relative."

"Something still bothers me about the diary, as well," he says. I study him. "Any insight?"

"Not yet."

My cell rings.

"We have a written statement from Cathy Jones," Callie tells me.

"We're on our way back."

"Great work, Callie."

She sniffs. "Did you expect any less?"

I smile. "Bring it to me and then we're going to shoot it straight to Ellen."

"We'll see you in twenty minutes."

A rush of adrenaline shoots through me, strong and sudden. It leaves me feeling energized and a little bit shaky, as though everything is outlined in a bright nimbus of light.

Here it is, I realize.

"We're going to be getting our subpoena," I tell James.

"Remember what we talked about."

"I haven't forgotten."

I know what James is saying. Examine every conclusion. We're still walking on the path he laid for us.

49

EVERYONE IS GOING. ALAN, CALLIE, JAMES, ME. WE HAVE THE subpoena and we're on our way to see Gibbs.

There's an excitement, a kind of electricity in the air. We've been forced, to a great degree, to sit back and suck it up. The whole story, mile after mile of it, a horror show. We've watched Sarah and others suffer in our mind's eye.

Now we could be an hour away from finding out who he is. It doesn't matter, at this moment, that he's led us here. We want to see his face.

We exit the elevator into the lobby and I see Tommy standing at reception, a phone in his hand. He sees me and waves.

"Give me a sec," I tell the others.

"Hurry up," James retorts.

"Hey," Tommy says as I approach. "I wanted to make sure you got hooked up with Kirby. Find out if that worked."

I grin at him. "She's interesting for sure. I--"

I hear a clicking metallic sound that I can't place. I want to dismiss it but something starts shouting inside my head and tells me I'd better not, better not, better not--

I turn, alarmed, and my eyes find a grim-looking, hard-faced Hispanic man standing just inside the lobby. He looks at me, I'm sure he sees me, he turns away--

"Tommy," I murmur, my hand going toward my gun.

No questions, Tommy's way, he just follows my line of sight and his hand moves toward the inside of his jacket.

What's that?

The hard-faced man throws his hands out before him, and they open, and two things tumble through the air. They are arcing, two perfect lobs--

"Fuck!" Tommy screams.

Tommy is pushing me back, shoving me away, and I'm falling backward, and I realize what's happening in a flash like a rifle-crack.

"Grenades!" I scream, too late.

The explosion inside the lobby area is huge and deafening. I feel a shock wave and heat and something grazes my face and then the air is sucked away, just for a moment, and I'm falling, feeling my head crack against the marble floor and everything goes very, very gray . . .

The puffy clouds in my head are replaced by the smell of smoke and the sound of gunfire.

Automatic weapon, I think, fuzzy.

I come back to myself in a flash, instantly alert. I'm lying on my back. I struggle to a sitting position, and then scrabble to the left, frantic, as something whines off the marble next to me. God, my head hurts.

My ears are ringing. I look around, see Callie behind a marble pillar, her face smudged and grim as she fires her weapon. I see James struggling to get up, blood running down his face. Alan starts yelling at him.

"Stay down, you moron!"

The automatic keeps firing, not letting up, spraying the lobby with bullets.

The hard-faced man means business, yes indeed, I think, and almost giggle, except that I don't because that'd just be crazy. Gotta clear my head . . .

I hear the return roar of handguns and pull my own, wobblybobbly, operating on instinct. My gun slips into my palm and whispers to me in tones of hushed joy, ready.

I'm in the hallway where Tommy pushed me, and then I remember and then (Oh God Oh Shit Oh Fuck) terror thrills through me and I search for him, look for the bloody body that I'm sure, that I'm afraid, that I don't want--

"Over here," Tommy whispers.

I whip around. Somehow, someway (Thank God Thank God Thank God) he's behind me. He's sitting with his back to the wall. His face is gray. He's bleeding from the shoulder.

"You're hit," I cry.

"No kidding," he mutters, trying to smile. "Hurts too. But I'm good. Shrapnel in the shoulder, no vital organs hit. Bleeding's under control."

I stare at him, trying to take this in.

"I'm okay, Smoky. Go kill that idiot, will you?"

Yes, let's, my gun whispers, and this time I snarl back, filled with a clarity of purpose.

I just need to see him. If I can see him, I won't miss. I move forward, staying down, my weapon at the ready. The gunfire from the auto continues, an insanity of lead and steel. I can smell the metal, and it cracks and whines and ricochets off every surface.

"Callie!" I yell.

She looks over at me and I point at my eyes.

How many?

She holds up a single finger.

One.

I nod and indicate that I want her and Alan to provide covering fire. She nods back and I watch as she conveys the plan to Alan. James has managed to move behind the pillar where Callie is. Blood flows from a cut on his forehead. He looks dazed and out of it. Callie gives me a thumbs-up.

I glance back at Tommy once. I grip my gun and crouch, waiting for the lull that has to come.

Everybody has to reload sometime.

The automatic weapon fire seems to go on forever. I know that this is an illusion; time elongates in battle, or becomes meaningless altogether. Sweat pours down my forehead. My head is throbbing, and the cordite in the air is starting to give me a metallic taste in my mouth. The silence is shocking when it comes. Its absence, after all that roaring, is almost a sound of its own.

I see Callie whip around the pillar, gun ready, and I'm rising as well, looking across the lobby now, searching for the hard-faced man--

I stop. My gun screeches in rage.

The front of the lobby is empty.

50

I RUN TOWARD THE ENTRANCE, FLY THROUGH THE METAL DETECtors, they squeal in protest. I register the unmoving body of a security guard. I can't tell if he's alive or dead.

I hit the doors with my shoulder and burst out onto the steps, breathing too hard, my gun in a two-handed grip.

Nothing!

I race down the steps and out into the parking lot. I whip my head left and right, trying to spot him. I hear the doors open and Callie arrives next to me, followed not long after by Alan.

"Where is he?" Callie snarls. "He just left!"

We hear the growl of a powerful car engine and the squeal of tires and I run toward the sound. I see a black Mustang racing away, lift my gun to fire . . . and then I realize: I can't be sure it's actually him.

"Fuck!" I scream.

"You got that right," Alan mutters.

I bolt back up the steps, taking them three at a time, through the doors again. Callie and Alan are on my heels.

The lobby is a picture of carnage. I see three bodies down and being attended to by other agents. At least four others have their guns out, while Mitch, the head of security, is talking on his walkie, his face grim. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with a trembling hand, and try to still my internal stress-and-battle voice. I'm still thinking in flashes. I need to move fast, but slow down inside.

"Check on James," I tell Callie.

I go over to Tommy. He looks a little better. His face isn't as white, though he's obviously in a lot of pain. I crouch down next to him, grip his hand with one of mine.

"You saved my life," I say, my voice shaky. "Stupid, heroic dingleberry."

"I--" He winces. "I bet you say that to all the guys who push you away from flying grenades."

I look for my own witty comeback and find that I can't speak for a moment. I don't love Tommy, not yet, but he matters more than any other man in my life since Matt. We're together.

"Jesus, Tommy," I whisper. "I thought you were d-d-dead." My tongue feels Novocain-numb and my stomach is fluttery and queasy. He stops trying to smile. He pins me with his eyes. "Well, I'm not. Okay?"

I don't trust my voice right now. I manage a nod.

"James is fine," Callie calls over, startling me, "but he'll need some stitches."

I look at Tommy. He smiles.

"I'm fine. Go."

I squeeze his hand a last time and stand on legs that I'm grateful to find steady. The elevator doors open up and AD Jones strides out, his weapon at the ready, a phalanx of armed agents at his back.

"What the fuck happened?" he barks, a near-yell.

"An intruder came in and tossed two grenades into the lobby," I say. "Then he opened up with an automatic weapon. He escaped out the front."

"Casualties?" he asks.

"I don't know yet."

"Do we know who the intruder was?"

"No, sir."

He turns to one of the agents who had come down with him on the elevator.

"I want agents guarding the front door. No one in or out other than medical personnel unless I personally authorize it. Get paramedics here fast, and in the meantime, triage the wounded. I want the agents that are most confident about their first-aid skills to get cracking."

"Yes, sir," the agent replies, and gets into action. AD Jones watches as the agents begin to move, as chaos starts to resolve under the dual dictates of training and command.

"You okay?" he asks me, giving me a critical eye. "You look a little gray."

"Stress," I reply. I reach back and feel my head where it had hit the marble floor. I'm relieved to feel just a bump and not blood. My headache is lessening, so I'm not worried about a concussion.

"We need to find out who this was, and what just happened," he mutters.

"Yes, sir," I reply.

He sighs in frustration and fury. "You saw the guy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was he Middle Eastern?"

"No, sir. Hispanic. Late thirties, early forties, maybe."

AD Jones curses at this.

"How the fuck did he get past security?"

"He didn't. He came through the front doors, lobbed some grenades, opened fire, and left."

He shakes his head. "How am I supposed to protect my people from that kind of threat?"

I don't reply. He's not really speaking to me.

"What do you want us to do, sir? Me and my team?"

He runs a hand through his hair, surveys the scene.

"Give me Alan," he decides. "Take Callie and follow the line on the subpoena."

In light of the moment, I'm dumbfounded.

"But, sir . . ." I wipe my forehead again. "Look, if you need us here, we're here."

"No. We're not stopping what we do because of this. Screw that. We'll have video of the perp from the security cameras in the next half hour. Between the agents in the building and the team Quantico's sure to be sending, manpower is going to be the least of my worries."

I don't reply. He scowls at me.

"I'm not asking, Smoky."

I sigh. He's right, he's the boss, and he's pissed, an unbeatable trio.

"Yes, sir."

"Get to it."

I move to Callie. James is standing now, but his gaze is unfocused. He's holding a handkerchief to the wound on his head. Blood has run down his face and neck and soaked his shirt.

"It looks like someone buried a hatchet in your skull," I say to him. He smiles, a real smile, and now I know that he's out of it.

"Just a scalp laceration," he says, still smiling. His voice has a floaty sound to it. "They bleed a lot."

I look at Callie, my eyebrows raised. She shrugs.

"I tried to get him to stay seated." She gives James a critical look. "I have to say, I like him much better this way."

"You know what, Red?" James says, overloud, teetering a little as he leans into Callie. "I need you like . . . like . . . I need a hole in my head." He cackles at this and then weaves on his feet, unsteady. Callie and I each grab an arm.

"Hey, you know what?" he says in that floaty voice, looking at me now.

"What?" I say.

"I don't feel so good."

His legs turn into noodles and Callie and I struggle to lower him to a sitting position. He doesn't try to get back up again. His face is pale and greasy with sweat.

"He needs a doc," I say, concerned. "I'm guessing a bad concussion."

On cue, the doors open, and the paramedics come rushing in, flanked by agents with their weapons out.

"Ask and ye shall receive," Callie remarks. She leans down, pats James on the arm. "They're coming to take you away, honey-love."

He looks up at her, bleary-eyed. He seems more there, now, more focused. He swallows and winces.

"Good" is all he says, and he sits so that he can put his head between his knees.

"So what's the plan?" Alan asks, coming up next to us. I give him a once-over. He appears to be uninjured. There's blood on his hands, though, up to the wrists. He notices me looking.

"Young kid," he says, his voice toneless. "He was bleeding out from an open stomach wound. I had to reach in and pinch off the bleeder with my hands. He died." Silence. "So again, what's the plan?"

I find my voice. "You're staying here at the request of AD Jones. Callie and I are going to take the subpoena and go see Gibbs."

"Okay."

Alan's voice sounds dull, but I realize, looking into his eyes, that he's anything but numb.

"You know," he says, rubbing his bloody hands on his shirt, "I can handle what we do. It's tough sometimes, especially when the victims are kids, but I can generally handle it." He surveys the lobby, shaking his head. "What I can't handle is this random shit."

I touch his arm, a brief touch.

"Go," he says. He looks down at James. "I'll keep an eye on him."

He doesn't want to talk anymore right now. I understand. I turn away, looking, as he had, over the destruction in the lobby. It's become a beehive of activity. I realize in surprise that I'm still holding my gun. I glance at a clock on the wall, hanging cockeyed now but still running.

Nine minutes have passed since we exited the elevator doors. I holster my gun. One last look toward Tommy, who's being administered to by the paramedics.

"Let's go," I say to Callie.

I call Elaina first, as we rocket down the freeway. I know that what happened will be on the news soon; I'd seen the vans and choppers moving in as Callie and I drove off.

"Alan's fine, I'm fine, Callie's fine, and James is fine," I finish.

"Maybe a little bruised, but we're fine."

She lets her breath out, a sound of relief.

"Thank God," she says. "Do you want me to tell Bonnie?"

"Please."

"Thank you for calling me, Smoky. If I'd seen it on the TV and hadn't heard from you first . . . well, that's why you called, I guess."

"I knew Alan would be caught up in what's happening there. I didn't want you to worry. Thanks for telling Bonnie. Now I need to talk to Kirby."

A moment later my killer for hire is on the phone. "What's up, boss?" she says.

I explain.

"I want you to move them, Kirby. Get them away from Elaina's. Do you have a safe place you can put them?"

"Sure thing. I have some spots set aside for rainy days. Are we expecting rain?"

"I don't think so. Just being careful."

"I'll call you when we're there."

She hangs up. No questions, right into action. Tommy was right: Kirby was a good choice.

I have no reason to think that what just happened in the lobby is related to Sarah or The Stranger, no reason at all. But I have no reason not to think it, and these days, my terror tells me, that's a reason all its own.

Callie is silent, watching the road with an unsettling intensity. Her right cheek is smudged. I see what looks like a spot of dried blood on her neck.

"It feels strange," she says, as though she feels me watching her.

"To be leaving while everyone else is back there."

"I know. They have it covered, though. We need to be doing what we're doing."

"It still bothers me."

"Me too," I admit.

We make very good time getting to Moorpark, and not long after exiting the freeway, we walk into Gibbs's office. His eyes widen and his mouth falls open.

"What the hell happened to you two?" he asks.

"You'll see it on the news," I say, and hold out the subpoena. "Here you go."

His eyes linger on us for a moment. He opens up the writ and reviews it.

"This only compels identity," he notes.

"That's all we need."

"Well, that's good," he says. He seems relieved.

He opens up a desk drawer and pulls out a thin file. He drops it on the desk.

"It's a copy of the signed contract between us and a copy of his driver's license." He smiles. "You got good legal advice. I would have fought you on the trust, but identity?" He shrugs. "It's been ruled on too many times."

My smile back is perfunctory. I drag the file over and open it. The first page is a contract, typed. It details fees and services, agreements to pay, liability. I skim this, going to the bottom to find what I really want.

"Gustavo Cabrera," I say out loud.

A name, finally, to put to The Stranger?

Maybe.

I flip the page over. What I see shocks me and yet doesn't--an unsettling combination. Gooseflesh runs across my body.

"Smoky?"

I point to it. Callie looks. Her eyes narrow.

The color photocopy of Cabrera's driver's license is clear and sharp and we recognize him right away.

The hard-faced man from the lobby.

"Son of a bitch," I murmur.

Are you really that surprised?

No. No, not really.

I fight the urge to leave the office at a dead run. Everything in me screams for motion, but the conversation between James and me comes to me now.

This is the most dangerous part, I realize. We've arrived, he knows we've arrived, and he wanted us here. If we take the steps he's expecting us to take, what are the consequences? He's made his intent clear already, with bullets and grenades. His desire means a conflagration, an Armageddon he plans to grin and groan through. How do we keep from giving it to him?

And what about the other? The thing that's been trying to swim up through my subconscious, the thing that nagged at James as well?

"Thanks," I say to Gibbs. "We have to go."

"You'll let me know?" he says. "In case the outcome affects the trust?"

"We will."

"Who is he?" I'm on the phone with Barry.

"Gustavo Cabrera. Thirty-eight years old. Came to the US from Central America in 1991. Naturalized citizen as of 1997. That's all pretty uninteresting. What is interesting is that he's got himself a huge house on a lot of property with no evidence of holding a steady job, and there's some unsubstantiated chatter about him stockpiling weapons."

"What--like militia?"

"Or maybe just a gun-nut. Nothing ever came of it. The informant that tip came from was generally considered unreliable and has since died of a drug overdose. Two other pieces of information. Both are supposed to be confidential--personal medical information--but someone found out and made a note of both. First one: Cabrera is HIV positive."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"And the second?"

"Doctor noted at some point Cabrera had been a victim of torture. What appeared to be whip-scars on his lower back and--get this--scars on the soles of his feet."

"Holy shit. Anything else?"

"That's it."

"I'll let you know what happens."

I hang up still feeling troubled and distracted.

There's a missing, a nothing, a something-that-should-be-there. Cabrera. He seemed to come from the right place, geographically. He's got the scars. Was he The Stranger? Why was I so reluctant to just say yes?

Sarah's diary. What did she leave out?

"What's the problem, Smoky?" Callie asks me, her voice soft.

"What's troubling you so?"

"It's too easy," I say. "It's too pat. Something about it doesn't fit him. It doesn't fit who he is."

"Why? How?"

I shake my head, frustrated. "I don't know, exactly. I just don't think it should be this simple. Why would he lead us right to him?"

"Maybe he's crazy, Smoky."

"No. He knows exactly what he's doing. He wanted us to get a subpoena, and he wanted us to see that file. He stirred the FBI like a beehive by doing his Terminator number in the lobby. He's shot himself to the top of the Most Wanted list and let us see his face after staying hidden for so long. Why?"

"You're the one who can think the way they do," she prods. Expectant. Confident that I'll provide a revelation.

"I can't see it. I know it's there to see, but I can't see it. Something about Sarah's diary. Something missing from it."

I can feel it now, on the edge of my vision. I can see it out of the corners of my eyes, but if I turn to view it head-on, it disappears. Something not there that should be there.

Something, something, some--

I stiffen and my eyes go wide as understanding rushes in. This is how it happens. This is the end result of drinking down the ocean of information, evidence, considerations, conclusions, possibilities, and feelings. It's like filtering a mountain through a sieve to obtain a grain of sand but, oh, how vital that grain can be. Oh my God.

Not something.

Someone.

"You've figured it out, haven't you?" Callie murmurs. I manage a nod.

Not everything, I think, I haven't figured out everything. But this . . . I think so, yeah.

Some things have just become clearer, clearer and more terrible.

51

"ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS, SMOKY?" AD JONES ASKS ME.

"Yes, sir."

"I don't like it. Too many variables. Someone could end up dead."

"If we don't do it my way, sir, we could lose hostages that might still be alive. I don't see an alternative."

A long pause, followed by a deep sigh. "Set things up at your end. Let me know when you want us to move."

"Thank you, sir." I hang up and look at Callie. "It's a go."

"I'm still having trouble believing it."

"I know. Let's go nail down the last facts we need."

The safe house Kirby had moved Elaina, Bonnie, and Sarah to looks unsafe. It's a house in Hollywood, old, beaten-down, ramshackle. I guess that's the point. Kirby opens the door as we approach and ushers us in. She has a grin on her face and a handgun tucked into the front of her jeans. She looks like a deranged blond pirate.

"The gang's all here," she exclaims. She's stopped trying to cover up her killer's eyes. They roam over the outside and her fingers tap the butt of her gun. She closes the door.

"Hey, Red Sonja," she says, grinning. She sticks out a hand. "You must be Callie. I'm Kirby, the bodyguard. What do you do, exactly?"

Callie takes Kirby's hand, flashes her a smile. "I brighten the world with my presence."

Kirby nods, not missing a beat. "Hey, me too. Coolness." She turns toward the back of the house. "Olly olly oxen free. Come on out."

Sarah, Bonnie, and Elaina appear. Bonnie comes to me, hugs me around the waist.

"Hi, munchkin." I smile.

She looks at me, at Callie. Her eyes fill up with concern. Callie gets the message. "We're fine, just some dirty smoke. Nothing a little soap and makeup won't handle."

"Tommy got hit by some shrapnel in the shoulder, babe," I tell Bonnie. "But he's going to be fine. It's not serious."

She searches my face for the truth. Takes a moment to gauge the state of me. Gives me another hug.

Elaina is worried, but I can tell she's being strong for the girls. Or perhaps they're just letting her think so.

"I'm glad everyone is okay," Elaina says, her worry appearing in the form of brief hand-wringing. "But--why did we have to come here?"

"It was a precaution. It could have been a random act of terror. The FBI certainly has plenty of enemies. But the profile we've been considering suggested it's also the kind of thing that The Stranger might try. Turns out we were right."

Sarah steps forward. Her face is calmer than it should be as she speaks.

"Who is he?"

"His name is Gustavo Cabrera. He's thirty-eight years old and he came from Central America. We don't know much more about him."

Sarah looks down at the floor. "So what happens now?"

I sneak a glance at Kirby and Callie. Both of them know. Elaina does not.

"Now," I answer, "you and I need to talk. Alone."

Her head shoots up. Her look at me is wary. She shrugs, trying for indifference, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.

"Okay," she answers.

I raise my eyebrows at Kirby.

"Two bedrooms in the back," she chirps. "The rest of us girls will stay right here and talk guns and makeup."

I walk over to Sarah, touch her lightly on the shoulder. She looks at me and something deep and terrible and haunted stirs in those beautiful eyes.

Does she know? I wonder.

Not for sure, I think. But she fears.

I take her back to the bedroom and shut the door and we sit on the bed. I prepare myself to ask the question.

The hardest evidence to see isn't the evidence that's there. It's the evidence that should be there, but isn't. We miss omission because, by its nature, it is absent. This absence is what had troubled first James, and then me, after reading Sarah's diary.

Once we realized what was missing, and coupled it with what we knew of The Stranger, things became clear. It was only a suspicion not yet proved, true, but our confidence was high.

We'd felt him against our skin, James and I.

This made sense.

This made sense.

I ask her the question.

52

"SARAH, WHERE'S THERESA?"

The change in her is a lightning strike. Horror fills her face and eyes and she shakes her head, back and forth.

"No, no, no, no, no," she whispers. "Please. She's--" Her face twists, her whole face.

Like a towel being wrung tight.

"--she's all I have left. . . . If I lose her . . . it's all gone . . . gone . . . gone . . . gone . . ."

She hunches into herself on the bed, hugging her knees, her head down. She begins to rock back and forth. She's still shaking her head.

"He has her, doesn't he?" I ask.

The thing that had bothered James and me was a complicated amalgam of half-seens and missing grains of sand. The feel of The Stranger. Sarah's love of Theresa. The taking of a hostage. The path we'd been led down.

But most of all, the absolute absence of Theresa from the rest of Sarah's story.

Theresa had been told not to contact Sarah while she was at the group home. Fine.

But then what had happened? She loved Theresa, and she told us what hap- pened to everyone else she loved. What about her Theresa?

"Sarah, tell me."

She keeps her face down, her forehead resting against the tops of her knees, and she begins to talk. Begins to run, even though these words aren't on paper. One more trip to the watering hole.

Sarah's Story

The Real Ending

53

SARAH HAD TURNED FOURTEEN AS SHE SLEPT AND SHE HADN'T cared. She woke up realizing she was another year older, and she didn't care.

Caring wasn't something she did much, anymore. Caring was dangerous. Caring could mean pain, and pain wasn't something she could deal with.

Sarah walked a tightrope these days. She had been for the last few years. The bad experiences had piled up and her soul had reached a tipping point. She'd realized that she was just a step away from going bonkers. One feather touch was all it would take to send her flying. It wasn't long from flying to falling.

She'd realized this one morning at the group home. She was sitting outside, looking at nothing, thinking of nothing. She was scratching an itch on her arm. She blinked, once, and an hour had passed. Her arm hurt. She'd looked down and found that she'd scratched herself until she bled.

The moment had pierced her numbness. It had terrified her. She didn't want to lose her mind.

Sometimes too, she'd get the shakes. She tried to make sure she was alone when it happened. She didn't want to show her weakness to the other girls. She could tell when it was about to happen: She'd get a queasy feeling in her stomach and the edges of her vision would get dark. She'd go lie in her bed or sit in a toilet stall and wrap her arms around herself and shake. Time had no meaning when this happened.

The moment would pass.

So she was afraid, and she had reason to be. Staying sane was work now. Something she had to make happen, not take for granted. But most of the time, she just didn't care about anything. The big black pool was inside her, bubbling and oily, always hungry. She fed it her memories and lost a little more of herself every year. She was fourteen now. She felt like she'd lived forever. She felt old. She got out of bed and got dressed and went outside. She hadn't heard from Cathy, and she was getting ready to drop Cathy into the big black pool, but she figured she could sit outside and wait one more time before doing that. Maybe Cathy would show up. Maybe she'd bring Sarah a cupcake. Cathy did her best, Sarah knew that. Sarah understood the war that went on inside of Cathy's heart, the struggle with closeness. She didn't begrudge the cop for it. It was a nice day. The sun was out, but there was a cool breeze, so it wasn't too hot. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, let herself enjoy it for a moment. A car honked, loud, startling her from her reverie. It honked again, insistent, and she frowned, looking toward the street. She was seated near the fence that surrounded the property, away from other people. A residential street was to the right of her, and the car was there, by the curb. Some shitty blue American car, looked like a real beater. Someone was at the passenger-side window.

It honked again, and now she was pretty sure it was honking at her, and she wondered for a moment if it might be Cathy, but no--

Cathy drove a Toyota. She stood up and went to the fence. She peered at the car, her eyes focusing on the face at the dirty passenger-side window.

She could almost make it out, it was a young woman . . . The face was slammed against the window, and Sarah saw it clearly, and her blood turned to slush in her veins. Theresa!

Sarah stood, transfixed. She couldn't move. The wind ruffled her hair.

Theresa was older--(she'd be twenty-one now, yep)

--but it was Theresa

(no bout adout it, take a picture it'll last longer)

--and she was terrified and sorrowful and weeping.

Sarah could make out a shadow behind Theresa. The shadow moved and Sarah saw a face, a face that looked melted by the panty hose that covered it. It grinned.

Sarah stood on the precipice and felt her arms pinwheeling as she tried to keep her balance, and something bubbled up from the big black pool, it was

(Buster's head, Buster's dead, Mommy hugged the gun) and she was still pinwheeling but--

(Whoopsie . . .)

She turned her face to the perfect sky and she screamed and she screamed and she screamed.

Time passed, probably.

Sarah woke up and marveled that she wasn't crazy. It occurred to her that maybe it wasn't such a good thing. Maybe sanity was overrated. Her wrists were strapped to the bed. So were her feet. The bed looked medical, the way, well, medical beds look. She grinned at this.

Drugs, they've given me drugs. Good ones. I feel happy and like I want to kill myself at the same time. Yep, definitely drugs. Sarah had woken up in this place once before, after a vivid dream that--golly--she just couldn't get out of her head. Sarah giggled once and passed back out.

Sarah sat on the edge of the bed and tried to plan how she'd do it. They'd released her from her restraints two days ago. She was in a locked ward, but they didn't keep a real close eye on her. Just gave her meds that she faked taking and left her alone, which was fine by her. It gave her time to plan her suicide.

How do I kill thee? Let me count the ways.

Something they couldn't bring her back from.

She gave it a lot of thought. In the end, she realized she'd have to get out of this place first. They'd never let her die here. Annoying, but true.

She'd have to convince them she was back in control, ready to head back to the roll your eyes, party people healthy environment of the group home.

No big deal. It wasn't going to be that hard. They didn't care enough here to look at you real close.

Sarah arrived back at the home a week later. Skinny Janet seemed happy to see her, and smiled. Sarah thought about Janet coming upon Sarah hanging by a rope from a rafter, and smiled back. She arrived in her dorm to find a new girl in her bunk. Sarah explained how things were to her. She explained by breaking the girl's index finger and tossing her and her shit into the middle of the dorm. Sarah wasn't mad--the girl was new. She didn't know what everyone else did: Don't mess with Sarah.

She glanced at the girl, who was holding her finger and howling, and thought, Now you know.

She rolled into her bunk and tuned the girl out. Sarah had more important things to think about. Like dying.

She was still thinking about this a few hours later, when one of the girls came in and walked over to Sarah's bunk. She looked nervous, deferential.

"What?" Sarah asked.

"Mail." The girl was really nervous.

Sarah frowned. "For me?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, hand it over."

The girl gave Sarah a white envelope and fled.

Sarah stared at it, and recognized the false banality of the white paper for what it was.

This is from him.

She thought about throwing it away. About not opening it at all.

Right.

She cursed herself and opened it up. Inside was a single sheet of white paper. It was a letter, typed on a word processor and printed out on an ink-jet printer. Faceless, like him. Menacing, like him. Happy Belated Birthday Sarah,

Do you remember my first lesson about choices? If you do (and I'm sure you do) then you will remember the promise I made to your mother, and you know that I kept that promise. Think of that, as you read the next.

Theresa is fine. I won't say she's well--she's a little under the weather, to be honest--but she is healthy. We've been together now for some three years.

She wants to see you again, and I would like to make that happen. But she won't see you while you're in that place. Let us know once you are settled into a foster home, and we will be in touch.

There was no signature.

He'd written it so that if someone else read it, they'd find it curious but innocuous. Sarah understood its full meaning, as he'd known she would.

Theresa is alive. She'll stay alive as long as I do what he says. He wants me to go into a foster home again and wait. Sarah had been resistant to being fostered of late. But she knew all she had to do was let Janet know she was interested and smile when prospective parents came by. She was pretty, she was a girl, couples always wanted to foster her in the hopes of an actual adoption. The thought came to her, unwanted.

What will happen to them? Whoever it is that takes me in?

She felt the darkness edge her vision and the queasiness rise in her belly. She turned toward the wall, hugged herself, and shook. An hour later, she destroyed the note and went to see Janet.

54

HE VISITED HER ONE DAY AT THE KINGSLEYS', ABOUT A YEAR later, when the house was empty except for her. The family had gone out, she hadn't felt well (so she'd said--she just didn't feel like socializing with people who might be dead before too long). Michael had already begun abusing her. She was afraid, at first, of how she'd respond. She had to stay here, for Theresa's sake. She had to wait. But what if he touched her and she just . . . went insane?

It wasn't that bad. She hated Michael, it was true, but it made a difference that he wasn't an adult. She didn't know why, but it did. It also made a difference that The Stranger would probably kill Michael. This made her smile. One time, she was smiling after they'd had sex, and Michael had noticed.

"What's so funny?"

Just thinking about you dying, she'd thought.

"Nothing," she'd said.

She didn't think about Dean and Laurel if she could help it. Laurel wasn't exactly an awesome mom, she was no Desiree as a fostermother, but she wasn't bad. There were moments of genuine care, times when Sarah could feel Laurel's interest in her well-being. So Sarah kept to herself as much as she could.

She was in her room, on her computer, when he appeared. It was early afternoon. He had the stocking over his face. He was smiling. Always smiling.

"Hello, Little Pain."

She said nothing. Just waited. That's what she did, these days. She said little, felt less, and waited.

He'd come over and sat down on the bed.

"You got my note, and you believed me. That's very good, Sarah, because I told the truth. Theresa is alive, and you've kept her that way."

She found her voice. "Did you hurt her?"

"Yes. And when we're done here, I'm going to go home and hurt her some more. But as long as you do what I tell you, I won't kill her."

Sarah felt something new clambering through the wreckage inside her. It took her a moment to identify it, and then she did. Hate. She felt hate.

"I hate you," she told him. Her voice didn't sound angry to her ears. It sounded normal. It sounded like someone speaking the truth.

"I know," he acknowledged. "Now listen to me. I'm going to tell you what to do. When I am done, you'll give me your answer."

55

SARAH HAS LIFTED HER FACE FROM HER KNEES AND IS NOW looking at me. I see an exhaustion that dismays me. This is the face of someone who's already given up.

"What did he tell you?" I ask. I'm careful to keep my voice free of anything--anything--that she might misconstrue as judgment. She looks away from me.

"He told me he needed the password from Michael's computer. He told me that he was going to lead the cops to the wrong man, and that I was going to help him. By writing my diary. By asking for you."

"He wanted you to ask for me specifically?"

Her voice is toneless. "Yes."

"What did he mean by the wrong man?"

"He told me that he had more work to do. I don't know what he meant by that. He said that at one point he was planning to give himself up, but then he changed his mind."

I digest this. Two thoughts:

One: James was right about him.

Two: It's not Cabrera.

Then, a question:

Why is Cabrera involved?

"Did he tell you anything else?"

She looks at me now, and the look is speculative, calculating. Someone with a huge truth to tell, but someone weighing the risks of telling that truth.

"Sarah. I understand what he did here. He did the same thing to you that he did to your mom, to Cathy Jones, to all the others. He took someone you loved, and used them to force you to do things, to agree to things." I catch her eyes. "It's not your fault. I don't blame you. You need to look at me, listen to me, and believe that."

Her face begins to redden. Whether with grief or anger, I don't know.

"But--but, I knew! I knew he would come do things to Dean and Laurel and Michael. And"--she takes in a huge breath, a whoop--

"when he made me slit Michael's throat, all I could think of was how I'd smiled when I thought about him d-d-d-d-dying, and then you, lying to you, and--and--and the man blowing up things at your building today, people got hurt, people got killed and"--her face goes white now--"I could have led him here. He could have hurt Bonnie and Elaina. I knew."

"He wanted you to know, Sarah," I say.

She stands up and walks, back and forth, back and forth, tears running down her face.

"It's more, though, Smoky. He told me if I did what he said, he'd let them go."

"Who?"

"Theresa and another girl, he said her name was Jessica."

I sag, angered and dismayed at the same time. He'd made Sarah responsible for the lives of many, given her an impossible burden and a sack of impossible choices to go with it.

I think of the footprints found at the Kingsley scene and of my earlier question about Cabrera. Perhaps he was involved because he had scars on his feet too. Maybe he had his own score to settle?

"Was the other man there, Sarah? At Dean and Laurel's?"

"Not that I saw."

Maybe Cabrera was there but you just never saw him. Maybe he only had one job--to stand barefoot on the tile.

"Is there anything else, Sarah? Anything you think I need to know?"

Again, that look. Calculating.

"He wanted me to do one more thing, after you killed the wrong guy. One last thing and then he'd let her go."

"What?"

"He wanted me to fuck him."

I stare at her, unable to speak for a moment. Here it is, I think. The cherry on the top of his pain-is-pleasure sundae. A new look, now, on that young-but-old face. It's a look of determination, mixed with a coldness that it takes me a moment to place. Kirby.

That's what Kirby looks like when she doesn't hide her real eyes.

"He said whatever was going to happen was going to happen in a week or so. I was going to do what he wanted, make sure Theresa was safe, and then I was going to kill him and then kill myself."

She says it with such certainty that I can't doubt her.

"Theresa has to live, Smoky." She sits on the bed again, puts her forehead back down on her knees. "I'm sorry. For what I did. It's my fault that Dean and Laurel and Michael are dead. It's my fault about your building. I'm bad. I'm a bad person."

She begins to rock now, back and forth, back and forth. The door opens. Elaina.

"I was listening," she says to me, unapologetic. She walks over to Sarah, who tries to back away from her. Elaina ignores this, and grabs on to Sarah, hugging as best she can while the girl fights her. "You listen to me," Elaina says, her voice fierce. "You're not bad. You're not evil. And whatever happens-- whatever happens--you've got me. Understand? You've got me."

Elaina isn't trying to tell her that things aren't bad. She's just telling her she's not alone.

Sarah doesn't hug Elaina back, but she stops fighting. She keeps her head down and shakes as Elaina strokes her hair. A

I sit at the old-fashioned Formica-top kitchen table with Kirby and Callie. AD Jones and Alan are on my cell, and the speakerphone is on. I have filled everyone in on my conversation with Sarah.

"We have a serious problem, sir," I say. "Well, a number, actually, but one in particular. Even if we can figure out a way to take down Cabrera without killing him--we don't have a shred of evidence against The Stranger. We don't know who he is. He's never shown Sarah his face. And I'm guessing the footprints at the Kingsley scene belong to Cabrera, not The Stranger."

"Cabrera might know who he is," Alan observes.

"True," I reply. "But if not, we're in trouble."

"Deal with what's in front of you," AD Jones replies.

"Yes, sir."

"So . . . what? Cabrera is supposed to be the fall guy?"

"Not just the fall guy. The dead fall guy. I'm pretty certain he's sup posed to commit suicide-by-cop. Probably at his house. I'm sure if we kill him we'll find all kinds of evidence that shows us he's our perp."

"And the cuckoo-bird goes free," Kirby chimes in. Phone silence as AD Jones ponders this. "So what's the plan?"

I tell him. He peppers me with questions, ponders it some more, and asks even more questions.

"Approved," he says, finally. "But be careful. And Smoky? He killed three agents. Safety of my agents comes first, his safety comes last. You understand what I'm telling you?"

"Yes, sir."

Of course I do. He's telling me to kill Cabrera if it will save Bureau lives.

"I'll get SWAT together. You get your ass over here and let's get this op on the road."

"You're fine with Kirby, then, sir?"

"I'm not sure that 'fine' is the right word, but I agree with the plan."

Kirby is smart enough to keep her mouth shut, but she gives me a big grin and a thumbs-up. She's happy, a child getting the birthday gift she'd asked for.

"See you shortly." I hang up.

"Since I'm staying here on bodyguard duty," Callie says, her voice dry, "I only have one question."

"What's that, Cal?" Kirby asks.

"Where's the coffeepot?"

Kirby shrugs. "Bad news on that one, Cal. No coffee here. Besides, it's bad for you. All kinds of chemicals in coffee. Yuck."

Callie fixes her with an incredulous look. "How dare you criticize my religious beliefs?"

Joking, as always, but to me her voice sounds strained. I look, really look, and I see that she's gone a little pale. For the first time I think I understand how constant this battle is for her. The pain never ends, and she's fighting it, but it's taking its toll. It's funny, of all the recent terrible things I've seen or read, this is the one that sucker punches me: the idea of Callie being worn down by something.

I walk into the bedroom. Sarah's stopped shaking, but she looks terrible. Whatever she's used to hold herself together over the years has unraveled. She's falling apart. Elaina strokes her hair while Bonnie holds her hand.

I tell them what we're doing. Sarah's eyes come alive. Well, more alive.

"Will it work?" she asks.

"I think so."

She looks at me then, really looks at me.

"Smoky . . ." Her voice trails off for a moment. "Whatever happens, don't let him hurt you or anyone else. Even if it means"--her voice cracks--"that it doesn't all work out the way I want it to. I can't be responsible for this anymore. No more. No more."

"You're not responsible, Sarah. Let it go. It's up to us now."

She looks away, and that's all she's going to say for now. Bonnie catches my eye and gives me a look.

Be careful, she's saying.

I smile.

"Always."

Elaina nods at me, bald and wonderful, and turns her inner beauty back to Sarah. If anyone can revive that girl's soul, Elaina can. Kirby appears at the door. "Ready to rock?" she asks, ever perky. Not really, I think, but let's go.

56

EVERY FBI FIELD OFFICE HAS ITS OWN SWAT TEAM. LIKE POLICE SWAT, they spend every working hour training, unless they're handling an actual situation. They keep themselves on the knife-edge and they look it.

The team leader is an agent named Brady. I don't know Brady's first name. I only know him as Brady. He's in his mid-forties. He keeps his dark hair short and tight, military-style. He's tall, very tall, probably six foot four, with an all-business amiableness to him that is neither friendly nor unfriendly. Shaking hands with him is like shaking hands with a rock.

"This is your show, Agent Barrett," he says. "Just tell us what you need."

We're in the conference room on the floor below my offices. Everyone's present and looking grim. Except for Kirby. She's gazing at the six members of the SWAT team in a hungry way, like they're a bunch of yummy, overly fit hot fudge sundaes.

"Gustavo Cabrera," I begin, dropping an eight-by-ten photo we'd printed out of him. "Thirty-eight years old. He lives in a house in the Hollywood Hills. Big place, old place, sitting on four acres of land."

One of the SWAT members whistles. "That'll be worth some dough."

"We have maps of the location, as well as plans for the house." I drop them onto the table. "Here's the thing: We need him alive. But we're pretty sure that he's been told to get himself killed. He's probably got a decent arsenal, and I imagine he's supposed to make it look authentic."

"Swell," Brady says in a dry voice.

"On top of that, we need it to look authentic too. We don't want to kill Cabrera. But we want The Stranger to think we did."

"How are we going to do that, exactly? Without getting ourselves shot to hell, I mean?"

"Diversion, boys," Kirby says, stepping forward. "Diversion."

"Who the hell are you?" Brady asks.

"Just a blonde with a gun," she drawls, in a fair imitation of him.

"No offense, ma'am," one of the younger members of the SWAT team says, "but you look about as dangerous as my girlfriend's poodle."

Kirby grins at the young SWAT officer, and winks. "Is that right?"

She walks over to him. His nametag says Boone. He's stocky, muscular, and very sure of himself. Classic type-A.

"Check it out, Boone," she says to him.

It happens in a blur. She slams a fist into Boone's solar plexus. His eyes bug out as he falls to his knees, gasping for air. In the instant it takes the other SWAT team members to react, she's pulled her gun and pointed it quickly at each one, saying: "Bang, bang, bang, bang--"

"Bang," Brady says, in time with her. He'd managed to whip out his weapon and point it at Kirby before she'd pointed hers at him. She holds the pose for a moment, considering. Then grins and holsters her weapon. She ignores Boone, who's breathing again and is taking in huge, whooping gasps of air.

"Pretty good, old dude," she says. "Guess that's why you're the boss-man, huh?"

He grins back at her. It's like watching two wolves get along.

"Get up, Boone," he barks. "And let it go."

The young SWAT officer struggles to his feet. He shoots Kirby a dark look. She waggles a finger at him.

"Are we done with the testosterone display?" AD Jones asks. "Both the male and the female version?"

"He started it," Kirby observes. "If he'd been nicer, I would have touched him somewhere else."

Everyone chuckles. Even Boone smiles, against his will. I see Brady appraising Kirby, realizing the same thing I have. Kirby isn't just a good operative. She's command material. In her own haphazard way she's managed to relieve the tension in the room, lighten the mood, and get the guys to like and respect her at the same time. It's impressive.

"So what's your name?" Brady asks.

"Kirby. But you can call me 'Killer,' if you want." She flashes him a smile. "All my friends do."

"You have many friends?"

"Nope."

He nods. "Me neither. So explain what you meant by 'diversion.' "

"Sure thing. You and your macho killer commando squad hit the front, by the book. Bullhorns and 'Give up! Give up!' and all that stuff. While you're doing that, and he's distracted, Smoky and I will go in through the back."

"Quiet, you mean?"

"Smooth as my inner thigh. And that's smoooooth, Mr. Brady, sir."

"Uh-huh. And you don't think he'll be watching the back?"

"Maybe. But that's why you'll have to blow some stuff up."

Brady raises an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"Blow some stuff up. You know--'kaboom.' "

"How do you propose we do that?"

"Can't you drop a bomb on his lawn or something?"

Brady looks at Kirby, thinking. He nods his head.

"Okay, youngster. The concept's sound. But I think we can exe cute a little better and not have to--how'd you put it?--'blow some stuff up'?"

Kirby shrugs. "Whatever. I thought you guys liked blowing stuff up."

"Oh, we do," he assures her. "We just try to avoid it unless we have to. Makes the neighbors nervous." He leans forward and spreads out the map of the estate. "Here's what I propose. We're going to have a problem anyway with the size of the grounds if we come on foot. He'll see us from a mile away. Shit, he could have the place mined for all we know. We'll go in from the air, instead."

"Chopper?" Alan asks.

"Yep." He points to a position in front of the house. "We'll hover up and at an angle. Makes it harder for him to get a shot. We'll have to hope he doesn't have a bazooka or some such nonsense. We'll lay out a field of fire. Real serious shit--I think I can get our hands on some fifty cals--along with some smoke grenades. Get his attention, make it sound like World War Three out front."

"Okay," Kirby says.

"Yeah. While all that's happening, you two will make your way to the back. Then on your mark, we'll fill the place with tear gas. You infiltrate and . . ." He spreads his hands.

"And hopefully we don't have to kill the poor guy," Kirby finishes for him.

Brady looks at me. "How's that sound?"

"Like a really bad idea," I say, "but the best under the circumstances." I check my watch. "It's four o'clock now. How soon can you be ready?"

"We can be airborne in a half hour. What about you? You'll need vests and masks."

"No vest for me," Kirby pipes up. "Just slows me down. I'll take a mask, though."

"Your funeral." Brady shrugs.

She punches him on the arm. "You don't know how many times I've heard that before."

Just like Alan had a day earlier, Brady looks surprised and rubs his arm where she'd punched him. "Ow."

"That's what they all say," she quips. "So can we go shoot some stuff now?" She holds up the weapon she'd drawn earlier. "New gun,"

she explains. "I need to break it in."

57

U N L I K E KIRBY, I WANTED A VEST. I UNDERSTAND WHY SHE doesn't like them, but I lack her predator's edge. Kirby was born to do this, to kick in back doors and enter houses filled with tear gas and flying bullets. Kirby doesn't have a Bonnie waiting for her. I do.

"This damn mask is going to give me the hat-hair from hell," she observes, examining the thing.

We're crouched against the wall that surrounds the back of the estate. It's a privacy wall, about six feet high. We're not scaling it in any dramatic fashion. We each have a four-foot-high stepladder. We'd both been offered MP5 machine guns, and we'd both declined. "Stick with what you know" is an old adage of the tactical situation. I know my handgun, my sleek black Beretta, as well as I know the color of my own eyes. Kirby had wisecracked about the MP5 clashing with her outfit, but I knew her reasons were the same: Travel light with the weapon of your choosing. Hers was a handgun as well.

"Ready to kick ass, over," Kirby subvocalizes into her throat mike.

"Roger that," Brady replies after a moment. "Armageddon will commence in two minutes from my mark. One, two, three--mark."

"Ooohh, synchronized watches," Kirby whispers.

"Countdown's commenced, Kirby," Brady says. "You get that?"

"Yes, boss." She looks at me and grins. "Hey, Boone. Still think I'm not dangerous?"

"Negative on that, BB." Boone's voice comes through, amused. BB stood for "Beach Bunny." "You're bad news in a pretty package, that's the truth."

Kirby checks her weapon as she continues the banter. I'm not interested in joining in. My stomach is fluttering and I'm so charged up I feel like I should be throwing off sparks.

At least your hands are dry, I think.

This has always been the case. No matter what the stakes, no matter how dangerous the scene, my hands never sweat in a gunfight, and they are always steady.

"Forty-five seconds until the nasty," Brady says, sounding bored. I think about Gustavo Cabrera, inside that house. I wonder if he's clutching a weapon as he stares through his windows. Are his hands steady or shaking? What's he thinking of ?

"Thirty seconds," Brady says.

"How are you over there?" Kirby asks me. Her voice is light, but her eyes are assessing me. Taking stock. Asset or liability? they ask. I hold out a hand for her. Show her its rock-steadiness. She nods. "Coolness."

"Fifteen seconds to D-day."

Kirby checks her own handgun again, humming. It takes me a moment to place the tune. "Yankee Doodle Dandy." She catches me staring at her.

"I like the classics." She shrugs.

"Ten seconds. Get ready."

We position ourselves at the base of our respective ladders. My endorphin buddies are back and they've brought their friends. (Fear and euphoria, euphoria and fear)

"Five seconds. Get ready to open the gates of hell."

"Bring it on, daddy-o," Kirby says, full of good cheer even as her killer's eyes blaze.

The machine-gun fire, when it starts, is incredibly loud, even at this distance.

"That's our cue!" Kirby yells.

We clamber up the ladders, reach the top of the wall, and lift ourselves over. We turn around and go into a hanging position, like someone doing a chin-up, before dropping to the ground on the other side. No jumps and rolls in the real world; it's too easy to twist an ankle. The gunfire continues, and I see flashes as well, over the top of the house. I can hear the helicopter rotors and a series of loud noises that I assume to be flash-bangs going off. As I run, I hear another noise as well. It takes me a moment to place it. Return fire, from an automatic weapon.

Kirby and I race toward the back of the house at a dead run. She's moving faster than I am by a body-length or two, unencumbered by a flak vest or my extra years.

The house is smaller than I would have expected for the land its on. Per blueprints, it's just under 3200 square feet, all of which is laid out in a single story. There's a back door that leads through a small hall into the kitchen. We arrive at the door. I'm breathing hard and deep. Kirby appears unruffled.

"We're in place, Mr. Boss-man sir," she says to Brady.

"Roger that. Cutting loose."

"Cutting loose" means that they're going to start chewing up the front lawn with machine-gun fire like there's no tomorrow, followed by tossing out flash-bang grenades as they fire tear gas canisters in through the front windows.

"Time for some hat-hair," Kirby says, giving me a wink. We slip on the masks. They're SWAT issue, with a wide line-ofsight and plenty of peripheral vision, but they're still gas masks. My forehead starts to sweat right away.

"Commencing," Brady says.

I thought it had been noisy before. That was nothing compared to the sound assault that signals Brady's team is indeed "cutting loose."

The sound of two fifty-caliber machine guns fills the air with thunder. Not long after that, the flash-bangs begin to roar, one after the other, not stopping. We hear the crash of shattering glass. Kirby kicks the door open and we're inside. I can't smell anything but the rubber of my mask, but the house is full of smoke and vapor. Cabrera is firing away with an automatic weapon and the roar of it is immense inside the home. There's no way he could hear anything above that.

Kirby moves forward, her gun out now. I follow, weapon ready as well. We creep toward the sound of his gunfire. The flash-bangs continue to explode. We move through the kitchen and reach the doorway that leads to the living room and the front of the house. We each take a side of the doorway and peer around.

Will you look at that? I think. Pure carnage.

Cabrera is outlined in light. He's crouched and firing up at an angle, toward the chopper, I know. His back is to us and his body shakes every now and then when he fires his weapon--an M16, I now see. He's surrounded by broken glass from the windows.

The plan at this point had been unelegant but simple. As Kirby had put it: "Try and tackle that sucker."

I look at Kirby, and she looks back at me. I see her eyes squint in a smile and I nod.

We don't have much time. It won't take long for Cabrera to wonder why Brady's team are such bad shots. He'll smell a trap. Kirby bolts out, running toward Cabrera. I breathe deep, once, inside my mask, and follow. Cabrera's instincts kick in and he whips around with the M16, eyes wide, mouth grim. Kirby doesn't slow, moving into him rather than away, forcing the weapon up as it discharges, tracing bulletholes in the ceiling. I have my gun up and am moving back and forth, looking for a shot as the two of them struggle with each other.

"Goddammit, Kirby," I shout, "get out of my line of fire!"

My voice is muffled by the mask, drowned out by all the manmade thunder. Kirby's other hand brings up her gun. Cabrera abandons the M16

and chops one hand down on her wrist, while the other goes for her throat. She blocks the throat blow, but loses her weapon. Cabrera's eyes are red-rimmed by the tear gas, and he's coughing, but he continues to fight.

"Fuck," I mutter, then "Fuck!" I shout, bobbing and weaving, my heart pounding, my head pounding, my hands still dry. Kirby goes for his balls with a swift kick. He turns his leg in, taking it on the thigh, and manages to slam the butt of his palm into her cheek. She stumbles backward as her face whips to the side. Time freezes.

Finally!

The stumble has given me a clear shot, so I shoot him in the shoulder.

He grunts and drops to a knee. Kirby moves in and slams him in the face with her fist once, twice, three times, and then she's behind him as he struggles to stay on his feet, and she's got him in a choke hold.

He scrabbles at her arms. It's too late. His eyes roll up in his head. She lets go, pushing him forward so that he falls onto his stomach. She whips out a set of zip-ties and secures his wrists. And just like that, it's over.

"Ceasefire, boys," Kirby says, the mask giving her voice an echoey sound. "He's down."

My hands begin to sweat.

58

GUSTAVO CABRERA IS SITTING ON A CHAIR, GAZING AT US. HIS shoulder has been tended to. His hands are secured in his lap now, rather than behind him. He should be more worried. Instead, he looks like a man at peace. His eyes have been treated for the gas and they're staring at Alan. Assessing.

Alan takes this amiably. Cool as a cucumber, but it's deceptive, because when it comes to interrogations, Alan is a shark. All lion, hold the lamb. He cocks his head, assessing Cabrera right back. Waiting.

"I will confess," Cabrera says. "I will tell you everything. I will gratefully tell you where the hostages can be found."

His voice is soft, lyrical, and vaguely reverent. Alan taps a finger to his lips, thinking. He stands in a sudden motion. He leans forward and points a huge finger at Cabrera. When he speaks, his voice is large and loud and accusative.

"Mr. Cabrera, we know you're not the man we're after!"

The happiness in Cabrera's eyes is replaced with alarm. His mouth opens in surprise, closes, opens again. It takes him a moment to get himself under control. His lips compress into a determined line. His eyes are sad. Still peaceful, though.

"I am sorry. I do not know what you mean."

Alan barks out a laugh. It sounds vaguely insane and definitely menacing. Scary. I'd be worried if I didn't know it was all an act. He sits back down as suddenly as he'd stood and hunches forward. Relaxed now, just two guys having a talk. He smiles and wags a finger at Cabrera in a "you old dog" kind of way. A "don't kid a kidder" kind of way. "Now, sir. I have a witness. We know it's not you. There's no question about this. The only question is: Why are you really working with this man?" Alan's voice is low and smooth, steady as syrup going onto pancakes. Then: "Hey! I'm talking to you!" Loud again, a shout. Cabrera jumps. Looks away. Alan's seesaw between extremes is unsettling him. He's developed a twitch in his cheek.

"He's been a victim of torture," Alan had told me prior to beginning Cabrera's interview. "Torture is basically about reward and punishment and establishment of intimacy. The torturer will scream at you and call you hateful things and burn you with cigarettes, then he'll personally apply the ointment to the burns and become all solicitous and soothing. The victim ends up wanting one thing more than anything else."

"The guy with the ointment and the nice voice."

"Right. We're not going to burn Cabrera with cigarettes, but moving back and forth between rage and kindness should be enough to rattle him pretty good."

Roger that, I think. Cabrera was starting to sweat.

"Mr. Cabrera. We know you were supposed to die here. What if I were to tell you that we'd be willing to fake your death? To make the rest of the world think you were shot while we were attempting to apprehend you?" Alan is continuing with his normal voice now. He's established dominance and instilled fear. Cabrera is looking back at him, a hopeful, speculative, complicated look.

"If you help us," Alan continues, "we'll carry you out of here in a body bag." He leans back. "If you don't cooperate, and let us help you, then I'll march you out of here in front of the cameras, and he'll know that you're still alive."

No reply. But I can see the conflict in him.

He stares at Alan for a moment, searching. He drops his gaze to the floor between us. His whole body slumps. The twitch in his cheek disappears.

"I don't care about myself. Can you understand that?"

His voice is humble, calm. It's difficult to reconcile the gentleness in front of me with the hardness I saw as he burst into the FBI lobby, guns blazing. Which one is his true face?

Both, perhaps.

"I understand the concept," Alan says. "I don't understand it as it applies to you. Enlighten me."

Another searching look. Longer, this time.

"I am going to die, eventually. This is my fault, no one else's. A weakness for women, an unwillingness to be safe." A shrug. "I get what I deserve with the HIV. But I tell myself, at times, perhaps it was not entirely my own fault. I was . . . harmed when I was a young boy."

"Harmed how, sir?"

"For a brief and very terrible time, I became the property of evil men. They . . ." He averts his gaze. "They had their way with me. When I was eight. These men, they had kidnapped me, while I was getting water for the home. They took me and in the first day, they raped me and they beat me. They whipped my feet until the blood ran like little rivers."

His voice is slight now, almost dreamy.

"They made a demand, when they beat me. Words to say. 'You are the God. I thank you the God.' The harder we wept, the more they beat us. Never anywhere else but on the feet.

"I was taken with other children, both boys and girls, to Mexico City. It was a long journey, and we were kept quiet with threats." His gaze comes back to me, and it looks like it should bleed. "I prayed, sometimes, for death. I hurt, not just in my body." He taps his head.

"In my mind." Taps his chest. "In my heart."

"I understand," Alan tells him.

"Perhaps. Perhaps you do. But this was a special hell." He continues. "In Mexico City we heard the guards speaking at times, and from their words we came to understand that we would go to America in the coming months. That our training would be complete and that we would be sold to bad men for great sums of money."

The trafficking ring, I think. And the circle closes.

"I was in a deep place with no light. I had been raised very religious, you understand. To believe in God, in Jesus Christ, in the Mother Mary. But to my eyes, I had prayed to them each, with all my might, and still the men came to hurt me." He winces. "I didn't understand then. The fullness of God's plan. In that dark place, when my despair was greatest, God was going to send me an angel."

He smiles as he says these words, and a kind of light fills his eyes. His voice finds a rhythm, like a wave that's always coming but never reaches the shore.

"He was special, the boy. He had to be. He was younger than me, smaller than me, but somehow, he did not lose his soul." His gaze on me is intent. "Let me help you understand the significance of that. The boy was only six years old, and he was beautiful. So beautiful that the men liked using him best of all. Every day, sometimes twice a day. And he angered them as well. Because he would not cry. They wanted his tears, and he refused them. They would beat him to make him weep."

He shakes his head, sad. "Of course, he always wept, eventually. But still . . . he did not lose his soul. Only an angel could have resisted them in that most important way."

Gustavo closes his eyes, opens them.

"I was not an angel. I was losing my soul, falling deeper and deeper into despair. Turning away from the face of God. In my despair I thought about killing myself. I think he sensed it. He started coming over to me at night, whispering to me in the dark while his hands touched my face. My beautiful white angel.

" 'God will save you,' he told me. 'You must believe in him. You must continue to have faith.'

"He was only six, or perhaps seven, but he spoke with older words and those words rescued me. I came to know his story, that he had been called by God when he was only four years old, that he had resolved to enter the seminary at the earliest possible age, to devote his life to the Holy Trinity. Then one night, the men came, and stole him from his family.

" 'Even so,' he would say to me, 'you cannot lose faith. We are being tested by God.' He would smile at me, and it was a smile of such pureness, of such bliss and belief, that it would pull me away from the despair that wished to drown me."

Cabrera's eyes are closed in reverential remembrance.

"He did this for a year. He suffered every day, we all did. At night, he spoke to us all and made us pray and kept us from wanting death more than life." Cabrera pauses, looking off. "One day, that fateful day, he saved my body as well as my soul.

"It was only the two of us. We were being transported by a guard to the home of a wealthy man, a man for whom just one boy was not enough. I was shaking in fear, but the boy, the angel, as always, remained calm. He touched my hand, he smiled at me, he prayed, but as we drove on, he became concerned when he saw that his prayers were not reaching my heart. I was afraid this time in spite of his words. My fear only grew as we approached, until I was trembling uncontrollably. We arrived at the house, and without warning, he reached over and took my face in his hands. He kissed my forehead, and he told me to be ready.

" 'Be not afraid, but trust in God,' he said.

"We left the car and the guard fell in behind us. The boy turned without warning and he punched the guard in the groin. The guards were used to our obedience, and so this one was caught by surprise. He doubled over in pain and screamed in rage.

" 'Run!' the boy told me.

"I stood there, trembling. Unsure. Ever the victim.

" 'Run!' he said again, only this time it was a roar, the voice of an angel, and he fell upon the guard, biting and kicking.

"His words reached me.

"I ran."

Cabrera rubs his forearm with one hand. I can see him there in the moment, but I can see it mixing with the present as well. The fear of indecision, the joy of making an escape from hell. The guilt of taking what the boy had offered, and of leaving him behind.

"I do not need to tell you the story of every moment, month, or year after that. I did escape, from that hell on earth. I came home to my family. I lived for many years after that as a troubled boy, and later as a troubled man. I was not a saint, I was often a sinner, but--and this is the most important thing of all--I had lived. I had not committed suicide. I had not damned my immortal soul. Do you understand? He had saved me from the worst fate of all. Because of what he did for me, I will not be barred from heaven."

I do not share Cabrera's beliefs. But I can feel the strength of his faith, the succor it provides him, and it moves me.

"I came to America," he continues. "I believed in God, but I was troubled, always troubled. I'm ashamed to say that I did drugs at times. That I saw prostitutes. I contracted the virus." He shakes his head. "Once again, the despair. Once again, the idea that death might be better than life. It was then, at that moment, that I realized: The virus was a message from God. He had sent me an angel, once, and that angel had saved me. I should have been thankful. Instead, I had wasted many years embroiled in my own sorrows and rage.

"I listened to God's warning. I changed my ways, became a celibate. Grew closer to God. And then, one day eleven years ago, my angel returned."

Cabrera's eyes now grow mournful.

"Still an angel, but no longer one of light. He was a dark angel. An angel made for the purpose of vengeance."

The tattoo, I think.

"He told me that he had gone through terrible, terrible things as a result of helping me escape. I cannot tell you the things he told me. They are too evil. He told me that at times, for moments only, he would doubt God's love. But then he would remember me, and he would pray, and he was certain again. God was testing him. God would lead him from that place." Cabrera grimaces. "One day, God did. One day, all of the boy's faith, all of his prayers, his sacrifice for me, all these things were rewarded. He and the other children, in America now, were rescued by the police, by your FBI.

"He described it as a glorious moment. It was, to him, as though God had kissed him. His faith and his suffering had been justified."

Cabrera goes silent now. A long silence. I have a very bad feeling building inside of me. Something that tells me I know what's coming.

"One night, he said, God returned them to hell. Men came to where they were sleeping, and murdered the police that guarded them. Men came and took them away and returned them to slavery. Terrible," Cabrera whispers. "Can you imagine? To be safe, and then to be snatched away from hope again? And for him, it was the worst of all. They knew that he had been helping, that he had told the police the name of a guard. They didn't kill him, but they punished him in ways that made his prior existence in hell seem like heaven."

I knew it already, someplace inside me, but now it is confirmed. I move so I'm standing next to Alan. "The boy's name was Juan, wasn't it?" I ask Cabrera.

He nods. "Yes. An angel named Juan."

I don't know if his picture of Juan as a young saint is the truth, or the overidealized memories of a once terrified and abused child who found a very good friend when he needed one most. What I do know is that this is a story I've heard before. It's a story where no one wins, not even us.

Killers are killers, and what they do is unforgivable, but there's a certain tragedy in the ones that were made. You see it in their rage. Their actions are less about joy and more about screaming. Screaming at the father who abused them, the mother who beat them, the brother who burned them with cigarettes. They begin with helplessness and end with death. You capture them and put them away because it must be done, but there's no savage satisfaction to it.

"Please go on," Alan says. His voice is gentle now.

"He told me that he had come to realize God had another plan for him. That he had sinned in thinking himself saintly, in comparing his sufferings to those of Christ. His duty, he now knew, was not to heal, but to avenge." Cabrera shifts in his chair, uneasy. "His eyes were terrible to see when he spoke these words. Such rage and horror. They did not look like the eyes of someone touched by God. But who was I to say?" He sighs. "He had escaped from his captors. He told me about returning in later nights to visit blood and vengeance on the men who had tortured him. It's how he came to understand that it had been two men, an FBI agent and a policeman, who had betrayed him and the other children. These men, he told me, were the most evil of all, the men wearing masks, hiding behind symbols.

"He had a plan, a long design, and he asked me to help. He couldn't be captured once everything had been done, because God had revealed to him that his work extended beyond vengeance for just his own suffering. He needed me to become him, in your eyes. I agreed."

"Sir," Alan says to him, "do you know where we can find Juan?"

He nods. "Of course. But I will not tell you."

"Why?" Alan asks him. "You have to know that he's not doing God's will, Gustavo. You know that. He's murdered innocent people. He's ruined a young girl's life." Alan locks eyes with him. " 'Thou shalt not kill,' Gustavo. You've killed for him. Innocent young men in that FBI lobby died, good men who never hurt a child or did anything less than their job."

Pain fills his face. "I know this. I do. And I will pray to God for forgiveness. But you must understand--you must! He saved me. I cannot betray him. I cannot. I am not doing this for what he is now. I'm doing this for what he once was."

It should be melodramatic; his total sincerity just makes it agonizing. Alan goes at him again and again, retrieves the sweat and the cheek-twitch, but it's like running into a wall.

Cabrera had been saved from a fate that some would argue was a lot worse than death. Juan had helped him to escape, not just his physical prison, but his despair. Cabrera's own life had been ruined, to some degree, by the evil done to him, but his faith still promised an ultimate salvation, a door Juan had left open for him. As for Juan . . . well. That was a horror story that I just couldn't take in. The most terrible, terrible, terrible thing was that we had helped create this monster. Someone corrupt had sold him down the river and had ruined the gentle boy with the unshakable faith. Juan had fallen, but not without the help of those he trusted most. Everything here was about either the absolute worst or the absolute best in people, and I didn't see Cabrera budging.

"There is one good thing I am allowed to do," he says.

"What's that?"

He inclines his head toward the left side of the home. "In the den, on the computer. You'll find the location of the girls. Jessica and Theresa. They are alive." He sighs again, sadder this time "Placed in hell by an angel. They have had a difficult time."

"Where are they?"

I'm asking this of Alan. He's already told me, but it's not sinking in.

"North Dakota," Alan says. "In what used to be a missile silo. Ten thousand square feet, all of it underground, and the ground it's under is in the middle of nowhere. The government cleaned out a number of silos and underground bases over the years. They sold them, most often to real estate companies who fixed them up and resold the properties to individuals."

"And that's legal?" I ask, dumbfounded.

Alan shrugs. "Sure."

As Cabrera had promised, we'd found the location where Theresa and Jessica were being held on the personal computer in the den, along with grainy photos of what I assumed to be the girls themselves. They were nude and they looked drawn and unhappy, but otherwise unharmed.

"Get in touch with the field office up there. Let's get the girls out and bring them here. Do we know how to enter the place?"

"An electronic combination lock with a thirty-digit code. I'll make sure they have it."

He heads toward the front door of the house. The air outside is filled with the sound of TV news helicopters. Just them, so far; it was one of the nice things about the home being on land behind gates and walls. Brady has men guarding the entrance to the estate until the local cops take over. No one in, period. Boone and one other member of the SWAT team are in a coroner's wagon, escorting Cabrera's "body,"

ostensibly to the morgue. In reality, Cabrera will never make it to the morgue. He'll be held under guard at a safe house. I take a moment to look around.

He came here, but he didn't live here.

I hit a number on my speed dial and put the phone to my ear.

"What?" James asks, preamble-less as usual.

"Where are you?"

"Signing myself out. These morons want me to stay here. I'm going home."

"Not nice, James. The 'morons' you're speaking about patched you up."

"That part wasn't stupid. Keeping me here is."

I let it go. "I need another viewpoint."

"Go ahead," he says without hesitation.

This is what keeps the rest of us from strangling James. He is always ready to work. Always. I fill him in on everything that's occurred.

"Cabrera says he knows the identity of The Stranger. He's not going to reveal it."

James is silent, thinking.

"I'm not coming up with anything."

"Me neither. Listen, I know you said you were going home, but I need you to get back to Michael Kingsley's computer. He wouldn't have made it unsolvable. He wants us to crack it."

"Dakota is on it," Alan says, startling me from my thoughts. "They're sending agents and a SWAT team. Local bomb squad too, just in case The Stranger decided to be cute."

"Where's Kirby?"

"Gone. She said she was going back to the safe house."

"We have a problem, Alan. We have no evidence. Not a shred of forensic data that we can hold up. Even if we knew who he was, everything is circumstantial. At best."

He spreads his hands. "Only one thing to do, then."

"What's that?"

"Work the scene. Get Callie and Gene and whoever over here and let them go to town. I've been through this before. So have you. Sometimes there's no substitute for down and dirty police work."

"I know that. The problem I have with it is conceptual. When I look at this case, do you know what I see? That none of the breaks have been forensic. They've all been about outthinking him. About understanding him. He doesn't leave things behind."

"But he does leave things out. Like with Theresa. He couldn't control that, and he missed the fact that Sarah omitted it." Alan shrugs.

"He's smart. He's not superhuman."

I know that Alan is right. I know it in all the deep-down places inside of me. It still chafes me. To feel so close and realize that, really, we're no closer than we were before.

"Fine," I say, giving in to the truth. "Let's get Callie and Gene here."

"You got it."

I wander into the den, trying to walk off my frustration, as Alan alerts Callie to her coming task. Like the rest of the home, the den is all about dark wood, dark carpet, brown walls. Old-fashioned and trying for sumptuous; to me it's just ugly. The desk, I notice, is immaculate and ordered. Too ordered. I move closer and nod to myself. Cabrera has some obsessive-compulsive going on. There are three fountain pens on the left side of the desk. Each one is aligned perfectly straight in relation to the other and with the right angles of the desktop itself. Three more pens are on the right side of the desk and a cursory glance confirms that they align not just with each other but with the pens on the left. A letter opener lies horizontally at the top of the desk near the computer screen. Its placement is equidistant between the two arrangements of fountain pens. Curious, I open the middle desk drawer. I see exact arrangements of tacks, paper clips, and rubber bands. I'm not going to count them, but I'm guessing the quantity of each matches the other. Interesting, but unhelpful. I grimace, still frustrated. I stare at the computer screen. One of the icons catches my eyes: Address Book.

I bend over and use the mouse to double-click it. A list of phone numbers and addresses opens up. There aren't many of them, and they are a mix of business and personal. I scroll through. Something flickers in my head. I frown.

I scroll through the names again. Another flicker. Omissions . . .

Something is missing. What?

I scroll through the list five times before I see it.

"Son of a bitch," I say, standing up straight, shocked. I cover my eyes with my hand, dismayed at my own stupidity. "You moron," I mutter, chastising myself.

It's not the evidence that points to him, but the lack of it.

"Alan!" I bark.

He ambles in, eyebrow raised in question.

"I know who The Stranger is."

59

"THEY GOT THE GIRLS OUT," ALAN SAYS TO ME. HE'S JUST FINISHED a conversation on his cell phone. "Jessica and Theresa. They're physically healthy, but we're not sure of anything else yet." He grimaces.

"Jessica's been inside that place for the last ten plus years. Theresa for five. He gave them ten thousand square feet of room, he fed them--hell, he even gave them satellite TV and music. But they were never allowed outside. And they weren't allowed to wear any clothes. He told them . . ."

Alan pauses, sighs. "He told them if they tried anything--like escape or suicide--that he'd kill someone they loved. They're both pretty withdrawn and uncommunicative. He might have beaten them."

"He probably did," I say. I'm glad the girls are alive, but the thought of their ordeal, like everything else about this case, makes me feel tired and angry.

We'd been in the car, waiting for Callie, when the call came in. A thought occurs to me.

"Call them back," I tell him. "Have the agent in charge ask the girls if they ever saw his face."

Alan dials, waits. "Johnson?" he asks. "It's Alan Washington. Need you to ask the girls something for me."

We wait.

"Yeah?" Alan shakes his head at me. They hadn't seen his face. Damn.

Alan frowns. "Sorry--can you repeat that?" His expression sobers.

"Oh. Tell her Sarah's fine. And, Johnson? I need you to break some news to Jessica Nicholson." He explains, then hangs up. "Theresa asked about Sarah."

I don't reply. What am I supposed to say?

Callie and Gene are here. Callie hops out and strides over, smiling. She's cleaned herself up and looks perfect again, of course. She nods toward the front of the house, taking in the broken windows, the burnt, bullet-chewed lawn.

"I like what you've done with the place."

"Hey, Smoky," Gene says. He doesn't look perfect. He looks tired.

"Hi, Gene."

I'm about to fill them in when I see another car coming toward the house. Brady appears from nowhere as it approaches.

"AD Jones," he says.

"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Callie murmurs. "By the way, Smoky, Kirby seemed to be disappointed that she didn't get to shoot anyone."

"She did good," Brady says, giving Callie a thoughtful once-over. I watch Callie return the gaze, recognize the semi-lustful spark in her eyes. She holds out a hand.

"I don't think we've met," she purrs.

"Brady," the SWAT commander says, taking her hand and shaking it. "And you are?"

"Callie Thorne. But you can call me Beautiful."

"Not a stretch."

Callie grins at me. "I like him."

The car arrives next to us, cutting the banter short. AD Jones gets out. He reminds me of both Callie and Brady, tireless and energized, his suit un-rumpled, not a hair out of place.

"Brief me," he says without preamble.

I fill him in on the assault, and on the subsequent interview with Cabrera. About the girls in North Dakota.

"Any recent update on the girls?" he asks Alan.

"No, sir. But soon."

I tell him about Juan. Watch as his eyes go wide, then sad. His face falls. He looks off. His mouth moves.

"Christ," he says. "We did this."

I wait, let him gather himself.

"So," he continues, "we know who he was. Do we know who he is?

Do we have a name?"

I tell him. Alan knew already. This is the first time Callie's heard this, and her look of shock matches AD Jones's.

"Gibbs?" AD Jones asks. "The trust lawyer? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I wish I was, sir. It makes sense, and we should have considered it before. It's a huge misstep on my part. He's right there. I just didn't see it until I was going through the contact list on Cabrera's computer. It wasn't what was there, but what was missing."

He stares at me, frowning. His face clears as he gets it. "Gibbs wasn't on the list. Jesus Christ."

"That's right. A quick search through the office didn't turn up anything relating to Gibbs or the trust. Nothing. But Cabrera isn't just meticulous--he's obsessive-compulsive. His contact list wasn't huge, but what was there was very complete. He had numbers for everyone from the woman who cut his hair to the trash company. Home phones, cell phones, e-mail addresses, fax numbers, alternate numbers--but not his lawyer? No way he'd leave that out by accident. That, combined with something else Cabrera mentioned while he was talking." I squint at AD Jones. "Juan was fair-skinned, wasn't he?"

"Yes. He almost looked white. It didn't occur to me to mention it."

"Gibbs is white. Cabrera called Juan a 'white angel.' I thought it was a figure of speech, but I put that together with the missing piece of the address book and realized that he meant white-skinned."

"It's not a lock," Alan says, "but it feels right. Hiding in plain sight. It's simple, it's smart, and it fits his MO."

AD Jones shakes his head once, a gesture encompassing disbelief, frustration, and anger. I know just how he feels. "So what's the problem?" he asks.

"Aside from the slight chance I'm wrong about this? No evidence, sir," I say. "No one besides Cabrera has seen his face. None of the scenes we're aware of have turned up anything probative or useful. Short of a confession, we have nothing to tie him to a crime." I point to Callie and Gene. "I'm going to have them scour this place from top to bottom, and hope something turns up."

AD Jones shakes his head in frustration. "Dammit." He points a finger at me. "Find something, Smoky. Enough is enough. End this."

He turns and gets back into his car, leaving me nonplussed by his outburst. A moment later, it heads toward the gate and the growing throng of reporters.

"Well," Callie says to Brady, "I suppose you and I will have to continue this later. There will be a later?"

He tips an imaginary hat.

"That's affirmative."

He saunters off. Callie ogles his backside as he goes.

"Ah, lust." She sighs. She turns toward the house, winks at me. Callie is doing what Callie does: trying to lift the inexorable grimness of things, like the boom box and sunlight in my bedroom a lifetime ago. "Are you ready to go to work, Gene?"

They go off together. I watch her reach into her pocket, pop a Vicodin.

I empathize right now. I want nothing more than a single shot of tequila.

Just one.

I wait. It's making me crazy.

Everything I can do is done. Gibbs is under surveillance. Cabrera is in custody. Theresa and Jessica are in a hospital, being examined. Bonnie, Elaina, and Sarah are safe. Alan is on the phone with Elaina, delivering the news about Theresa so that Elaina can pass it on to Sarah. Callie and Gene are inside, trying to balance speed with thoroughness. Thoroughness is winning. All I can do now is wait.

Alan walks over to me. "Elaina's going to let Sarah know. At least we can give her that."

"What do you think, Alan? Even when we catch Juan, is there a happy ending? Or does he get what he wanted all along?"

I'm not sure why I ask him these questions. Maybe because he's my friend. Maybe because of all the people on my team, Alan is the one I feel I can look up to, subordinate or not.

He's quiet for a long moment. "I think when we catch him, we're doing our job. We're keeping him from doing more damage. We're giving Sarah a chance. That's all. It may not be the best answer, but it's all we've got." He looks at me, gives me a kind smile. "It's all we're responsible for, Smoky. You want to know if Sarah's already dead inside, if he's murdered her spirit. The truth is, I don't know. The bigger truth is, Sarah doesn't know. The final truth is, we're giving her the chance to find out. And that's not everything, and it might not be enough, but it's not nothing, either."

"And him? What about Juan?"

Alan's face becomes sober. "He's a perp now. His days as a victim are long gone."

I think about what he's said, and it comforts me and then doesn't, comforts me and then doesn't. My spirit tosses and turns, trying to sleep on a bed that's only soft in certain places. This is not a new feeling, and I let it wash over me. Justice for the dead. It's not nothing. It's far from nothing. But it's not resurrection, either. The dead stay dead even after their killers are captured. The truth of this, the sadness of it, makes the job neither pointless nor fulfilling.

Acceptance and disquiet. Acceptance and disquiet. Two waves that roll me gently, one following the other inside my heart forever. I wait.

During my waiting, Tommy calls. I feel guilty and elated, two new waves. Guilty that I had not called him to check on him. Elated at the sound of his voice, at the truth that he is alive.

"How are you?" I ask.

"I'm okay. No major damage to the muscle. Cracked my clavicle, which hurts like hell, but I won't end up on disability. I'm fine."

"I'm sorry I didn't call."

"I'm not. You're doing your job. There'll be times I'll get caught up too. Nature of the beast. If we start keeping score, we'll be over before we begin."

His words warm me inside. "Where are you now?"

"Home. I wanted to call you before I took my pain pills. They can make me a little goofy."

"Really? Maybe I'll have to come over and take advantage of you while you're all loopy."

"Nurse Smoky giving me a sponge bath? I'll have to get blown up more often."

The pressure inside causes me to react with a giggle. I clap a hand over my mouth, mortified.

"Anyway," Tommy says. "Get back to it. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Bye," I say, and hang up.

Alan glances over at me. "Did you just giggle?"

I frown. "Of course not. I don't giggle."

"Ah."

We wait.

Callie and Gene are done with half of the home. They have a set of elimination prints taken from Cabrera that they're using for comparisons as they go. So far, nothing. It's 3:00 A.M. The reporters and their helicopters are gone, maneuvered away by a skillful AD Jones. He'd made himself the source of information and they'd followed him like a herd of hungry vampires. I imagine that the story we want told has now been splashed across television screens and Web sites, and will show up in the newspaper headlines of tomorrow. Cabrera found. Suspect dead. Case closed. We wait.

My phone rings at 4:30 A.M.

"It's Kirby."

The simple fact that her voice is serious and no wisecracks follow starts the alarm bells ringing.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Sarah's gone."

60

I'M ALMOST SHOUTING AT KIRBY. IT'S ANGER DRIVEN BY FEAR.

"What do you mean she's gone? You were supposed to be guarding her."

Kirby's voice is calm without being defensive. "I know. I was worried about people on the outside trying to get in, not her trying to get out. She wasn't snatched, Smoky. She left. I went to the bathroom. She walked out the door. She left a note, said, There's something I have to do. "

I pull the phone away from my ear. "Son of a bitch!" I yell into the sky. Alan's been inside the house. He comes running out.

"Do you know where she might be going?" Kirby asks. I stop, poleaxed.

Do I?

The voice in my head replies, accusing.

Of course you do. If you'd been listening, you would have been ready for this. But you were too busy with yourself, weren't you?

The truth I'm trying to reveal to myself appears. Sarah, memorizing him. The way he talks. Saying she'd never forget his voice.

Sarah, taking a phone call from Gibbs the other day, supposedly to "verify"

she was fine with us going into the home.

I grip my temples with one hand. My head is spinning and my heart is racing.

He talked to her recently, the day he killed the Kingsleys. Then, he talked to her on the phone, in the hospital, as Gibbs. She knew the moment she heard his voice. He probably wanted her to know.

"I think I do," I tell Kirby. "Stay with Bonnie and Elaina. I'll be in touch."

I hang up before she can reply.

She knew, and once she knew that Theresa was safe, she went off to do the one thing she wanted more than anything else in the world. She went to kill him.

The endless cycle.

"What is it?" Alan asks.

I see the fear in his eyes. I can't blame him. The last time we were near the end of a case and I got a phone call that made me react this way, Elaina was in danger.

"Elaina and Bonnie are fine. Sarah's on the run."

I see him thinking, his mind racing, watch as understanding hits home.

"Gibbs. She's going to kill Gibbs."

"Yes," I say.

The fear doesn't leave his eyes. It's not Elaina, it's not Bonnie, it's not me. It's not Callie or even James.

But it is Sarah.

I hear James's voice in my head: Every Victim.

"If we let her kill him, she'll never make it back," he murmurs. I unfreeze at this, snapping into motion.

"Get ahold of surveillance. Alert them, get the address. If they spot her, they're to detain her. Otherwise, they're to watch and wait for us to get there. I'm going to let Callie know we're going."

I head for the house at a run. I find Callie in one of the bedrooms. I tell her what's happening. Again, I see that fear. The same fear in her eyes that I'd seen in Alan's. It's odd to see on Callie, unsettling. No one's gotten away from Sarah's story without a scar to show for it.

"Go," she says, grim. "I'll handle things here."

61

AS IT TURNS OUT, GIBBS--JUAN--DOESN'T LIVE THAT FAR AWAY, in LA terms. In this early time of the morning, without traffic to slow us down, we should arrive at his house in the San Fernando Valley within twenty minutes.

On the way there, my phone rings again.

"Is this Smoky Barrett?" a deep voice asks.

"Who's this?"

"My name is Lenz. I'm one of the agents assigned to watch Gibbs. We got a problem."

My heart beats even faster, if that's possible. "What?"

"My partner and I were doing our thing, keeping an eye on the house. Pretty quiet detail. About five minutes ago someone took a shot at us. Well, at the car. Plugged holes through the trunk and one of the passenger windows. We dive down in our seats, pull our weapons, when we come back, we see a teenage girl beating feet to the front door."

"Dammit!" I say. "Did she enter the home?"

His voice is miserable. "Yeah. Three minutes ago or less."

"I'll be there shortly. Stay alert but stay back."

It's a small home. Humble. A two-story built in older, some would say better, times. It has a small, treeless, unfenced front yard. The driveway leads from the street to a detached single car-garage. The street is quiet. The sun is breaking somewhere on the horizon; we can see its glow climbing over the rooftops.

An agent I don't recognize is waiting. He comes to us as we get out.

"Lenz," he says. He's fortyish, a little homely. He has the skinny look and sallow skin of a smoker. "Really sorry about this."

"You stay here," I tell him. "Keep your partner watching the back. We're going up to the front door."

"You got it."

They get moving. Alan and I do the same. We haven't drawn our weapons, but our hands rest on them. When we get to the front porch, I hear Sarah. She's screaming.

"You deserve to die! I'm going to kill you! Do you hear me!"

A voice responds. It's too low for me to make out the words.

"Ready?" I ask Alan.

"Ready," he says, my friend that I secretly look up to. No questions asked.

We're at the tipping point. I can hear it in Sarah's voice. There is no time for finesse, only time for action.

We move to the front door. I check the knob. It opens under my hand, and I throw the door wide. I enter first, gun drawn. Alan follows.

"Sarah?" I call. "Are you here?"

"Go away! Go away go away go away!"

It's coming from the kitchen, toward the rear of the house. It's not far; I reach the doorway in a few quick strides. I look into the kitchen and stop.

It's small. Old-fashioned and efficient. The dining table sits away from the stove, clean but battered, with four old chairs around it. Stark. Functional.

Juan is sitting in one of the chairs, smiling. Sarah is standing, facing him, about four feet from him. She has a gun pointed at his head. It looks like a thirty-eight revolver. It's an obscenity in her small hands. Something that doesn't belong.

I almost don't recognize Gibbs. He's missing his beard and moustache.

They were fake, dummy.

He turns, sees me, smiles.

Eyes aren't blue, either. They're brown. He was wearing contacts.

"Hello, Agent Barrett." His voice is humble, but his eyes are bright. He's dropped the pretense, let the madness inside him shine. "Are you the good side of what I've become?"

"Shut up!" Sarah screams. The gun trembles in her hands. I glance back at Alan, shake my head. Telling him to wait. I lower my gun without putting it away.

Sarah had begun to unravel earlier. Now she's come undone. Looking at her face, I understand, finally, what it was that Juan as The Stranger had been striving for.

Her face was the face of an angel, its wings shorn, as it fell away from the sight of God. The absence of hope as a totality. A Ruined Life.

I look at Juan and see that he's sucking down the horror of it, and that this, for him, has become a kind of ecstasy. He told himself once that it was all about justice, and maybe, at one time, it was. But he had changed, in the worst and most fundamental way, until it was only about one thing: The Joy of Suffering.

He'd set out to punish evil men, and in doing so, had become an evil man.

"This is not the ending I had planned," he says, ignoring me now, "but God's will is all, and I see, I see, what he is doing here, in his infinite wisdom, praise be to Him. He set me on the path, to make you over in my own image, and that can only be completed, I see, I see, by my death at your hands, praise be to Him. You will kill me in the name of vengeance, you will kill me because you think that it is right, but, I see, I see, that you will only be killing me because you want to, praise be to Him." He pauses, angling his head down. "You will not kill me to save Theresa. She has been released, she is unharmed. You will be killing me because you yearn to spill my blood, a need so sharp and huge and terrible that it burns your skin like a bright blue flame. And where does that need come from, where does that flame come from?" He nods and smiles with his mouth open. "It is the flame of God, Little Pain. Don't you see? I was an angel of vengeance, sent by the Creator to destroy the men who hide behind symbols, the demons that caper through the world in pressed suits, proclaiming their goodness while eating the souls of the innocent. I was sent by God to cut a wide swath, a bloody swath, a swath that drowns both victim and oppressor, the innocent and the guilty. What are the deaths of some who shouldn't die in the name of the greater good? I was sacrificed so that I could be made into the Lord's weapon. And I have sacrificed you, I see, I see, so that you can become me and take my place, praise be to Him." He leans forward, closes his eyes, his face blissful. "I am ready to meet God. Hail Mary, full of Grace."

I enter the kitchen, ignoring Juan, watching Sarah. I move toward her, not stopping, coming up next to her. She doesn't react. She can't tear her eyes away from Juan's face.

She sees, I realize. Like I see. Like James sees. Like that poor FBI agent who'd blown her head off. Sarah sees Juan, and understands. Her agony is his orgasm. But the reasons behind it are all tragedy and madness.

I can feel her need coming off her, a burning. Her finger trembles on the trigger, and she stands, poised in the moment. She wants him dead, but she's afraid. Afraid it won't be enough. That it won't last long enough. That it'll be over too fast, and that none of it will fill the hole.

And she's right. She could kill him for an eternity, and in the end, she'd only lose herself.

What do I say to her? I'm going to get one chance. Maybe two. Juan continues to pray, fervent, certain, proud.

Insane. He'd started out organized, but Dr. Child had been right. The lunacy had been there, waiting and latent, like a virus. I drown out his voice with my own thoughts, my eyes fixed on Sarah's angel face.

Falling, but not yet fallen.

Theresa, Buster, Desiree. Loved and loved by. Goodness and smiles and . . . gone. Where was the key? What would pull her away from the edge she was about to tumble into?

It comes to me softly, feathers, not thunder. A ghost-kiss. I lean forward and put my lips to her ear. I whisper to her and I put the force of my own self into my voice, my own pain survived. We're both wingless angels, scarred inside and out, bleeding from wounds that fight not to heal. The decision is not about goodness or evil, about happiness or sadness, about hope or despair. The decision is the simplest of all: the decision to live or to die. To gamble that as life continues, suffering will abate, and something better will eventually abide.

I put Matt and Alexa into my voice, and hope that they will carry my words into her heart.

"Your mother is watching you from the clouds, baby. Forever and always, and she doesn't want this. The only place she lives is inside of you, Sarah. That's the last part of her. If you kill him, she dies for good." I straighten up, move away. "That's all I'm going to say, honey. It's your choice now. You choose."

Juan narrows his eyes at me. He examines Sarah. Smiles like a snake lapping up milk mixed with sugar.

"You've already chosen, Little Pain. Do you need my help? Do you need me to remind you, to fan the flame inside so that you can do His will?" He licks his lips. "Your mother? I touched her body after she died. I touched her private places. I touched her inside."

Sarah freezes. I freeze too. I wait for her to kill him. A dark part of me, the place where I keep my own killer's eyes, forgets my purpose and wants her to kill him. Instead, she begins to shake. It starts as a small quivering, like the tremors that precede an earthquake. It moves from her hands to her arms to her shoulders. Down her chest, to her legs, a terrible shaking, till it almost seems like she should fly apart, and then--she freezes.

Her head goes back and she howls.

It's awful.

It's the sound of a mother who woke up and realized that she rolled over on her baby in her sleep, suffocating him. It drills into my heart.

As she howls, I see Juan, and I get to witness his exaltation. Watch him quiver, see him shake, watch as his upper body pitches forward, as his fists clench and his hands curl. Hear his groan. Long, low, full of slithering things and the rolling, stinking, sticky dead. It harmonizes with the sound of Sarah through discordance, demonic. Juan's fall is complete. He's no better now than the men who made him this way.

Sarah falls to the floor and curls into herself, tighter, tighter, tighter. She continues to howl.

"Don't move," I tell Juan.

He ignores me. He can't tear his eyes away from Sarah's agony. When he speaks, his voice trembles in wonder:

"There I am."

In The End:

The Things That Glow

62

"ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS, HONEY?"

Bonnie smiles up at me, serene.

We are about to enter an interrogation room. Juan will be there. Bonnie has demanded to see him, for reasons she won't share with me. I had refused, at first. I even got angry about it, something I'd never been with Bonnie.

She'd remained resolute.

"Why?" I had asked. "Can you at least tell me why?"

She pantomimed handing something to someone.

"You have something to give? You have a gift?"

She nods. Hesitates. Makes a motion of handing something to me, then handing something to--she points to the name on the paper. Juan.

"You have a gift for me and for Juan?"

A smile, serene. A nod.

She will not let it go. I've relented. I'd hoped that Juan would save me from this by refusing to see us. To my surprise and unease, he'd agreed. So here we are.

Bonnie has a notepad under her arm. She carries a marker in her hand. They wouldn't let her bring in a pen--too sharp. It took some arm-bending to get them to allow the marker.

We enter the room. Juan is already there, cuffed at wrist and ankles, secured through a link bolted to the floor. He smiles as we enter. It's a broad smile, a lazy smile, a dog in a nice patch of sun. The sinner, for now, not the saint.

I'm told he moves back and forth between these two temperaments. He spent one recent afternoon in the prison chapel, on his knees, arms spread wide to God. That same night he raped his cellmate, chuckling as the young man screamed. Juan does all of his praying in solitary confinement now.

"Agent Barrett. And little Bonnie. How are you both?"

"Fine, thank you," I reply, trying for dispassionate. Once he had realized he was going to live, Juan had spilled the beans on everything. He was, of course, proud of his accomplishments. He was righteous, and now, he had an audience to preach to. We hung on his every word and let him hang himself. It had taken him some time to establish with certainty which of the two task-force members had betrayed him.

He'd spent years tracking down and documenting the flow of money from its original source. He'd managed to get proof on Tobias Walker first, over a decade ago. The FBI end of things was more difficult--Jacob Stern had been smart. Juan found out that Stern had come to the FBI via the LAPD, and had, in fact, served in the same precinct as Walker at one time. This had raised Juan's suspicions. His ruthlessness and persistence eventually got him the information he wanted.

Walker had been the primary contact with the underworld, the real Judas of the act. Afterward, he'd needed Stern's assistance in covering the money trail and so had brought the agent in on the scheme. Juan had proof of Stern's complicity, of Walker's sins. They were sitting on Michael Kingsley's computer.

"I was going to give you the password and let you extradite Stern. Once he was here "--Juan had smiled with too many teeth showing--"I would have taken my revenge. It would have looked like an accident, of course, as I was supposed to be 'dead,' but I could have lived with that. The important thing is that the world would know, would understand that symbols mean nothing, the soul means all."

In this, I suppose, he's succeeded. Stern is mid-extradition. I hope he dies a horrible death in prison. I hold him and Walker most responsible for everything that has occurred. They made this monster, and if Juan had settled for visiting himself on just the two of them, I would have considered justice served. Instead, he wreaked indiscriminate destruction over many lives and numerous years. He destroyed the innocent and I can't forgive him for it.

We asked Juan about AD Jones. He'd revealed a surprising streak of pragmatism. "Too risky, killing an Assistant Director. I was willing to wait to kill him at a later date."

All of this explains why he had come out into the open. It was a confluence of events, designed to lead us to Cabrera and to expose Stern. Once Stern was here . . .

It gives me a chill to think of how close he came to pulling it all off. Juan blamed everyone on the original task force for not "seeing"

Walker's and Stern's true colors. In his mind, they were supposed to protect him. They failed. They deserved to die.

He was more merciful to the women because they weren't a part of the original betrayal.

"But they were harlots, blind to the inadequacies of their husbands' souls," he pointed out with calm rationality. They failed. They deserved to die.

It was about failure, I'd realized, all of it. Juan had been failed, probably from birth, and so he'd grown up to become a killer with no mercy for failure.

When Juan talked about Walker, I knew I was witnessing the closest thing to pure hatred I'd probably ever get to see. His face would go calm, but his eyes would crackle and his voice would vibrate with poison and death.

"He escaped my hand, but not his children or their children,"

he'd said, gloating and hating simultaneously. "I destroyed the Langstroms. You should have seen their sorrow. It was magnificent! And their death was my justice. Do you know why? Because I ensured they went to hell!" His eyes had been almost all pupil and black. "Do you understand? They committed suicide. Whatever else happens to me, they're burning in hell right now for all eternity!"

And he'd laughed and laughed and laughed. Madness. I'd been curious about his change of MO. He'd shot Haliburton after forcing him to write a poem, and he'd tortured and castrated Gonzalez.

"It wasn't about ritual," he'd explained to me. "It was about suffering. I tailored their deaths to bring them the most agony before they died. The physical was important, yes, but their spiritual pain was most important of all, praise be to God."

Sarah was, of course, him--but only to him. He'd been busy twisting her life, creating betrayals, giving her a taste of the living nightmare he'd gone through, in the certainty that she'd become what he was when all was said and done. He remains convinced that that's exactly what happened. But I know better. Sarah isn't well, but she isn't Juan, either. Juan is evil. Sarah is good. I rarely get to think in such black-and-white terms in my job, but it's warranted here. Her soul is scarred, not gangrenous. The "Mr. You Know Who" mentioned in the Vargas video was no longer living. Juan had long ago seen to that. He'd escaped his captors when he was fifteen. Four years later he'd hunted them down, one by one, killing them all in various horrible ways. The video had been a red herring, designed to occupy and confuse us. Juan had paid Vargas to make it.

"He was so far gone," Juan had said, "that he didn't even wonder why I wanted it, or remember who I was. Can you believe that? Junkies are truly bereft of God's love."

Now we're here, and I'm wondering why. I don't want to be here. Juan is a lost cause, worthy of both my pity and my rage. He turns those overbright eyes on Bonnie. "Why did you ask to see me, little one?"

Bonnie has remained serene throughout. She appears untouched by Juan, by what he is, the presence of him. She opens the pad on the table in front of her and begins to write. I watch, captivated. She finishes and hands the pad to me. Indicates that she wants me to read what she's written.

"She wants to know if you're familiar with her story."

Juan nods, really interested now. "Of course I am. That was an inspired act of pain. Forcing you to watch as he raped and killed your mother. Tying you to her body. Masterful work by a true artist of suffering."

"You fuck," I say, trembling with rage.

Bonnie puts a hand on my arm. She takes back the notepad. I glare at Juan as she writes some more. He smiles back at me. She hands me the notepad again. I read what she's written, and my heart stutters.

"She . . ." I clear my throat. "She wants to know if you'd like her to tell you why she doesn't speak. The real reason. She thinks you'll appreciate it."

I turn to Bonnie. "I think we should go. I don't like this."

She pats my arm again. Serene, serene.

Trust me, her eyes say.

Juan licks his lips. A corner of his mouth twitches.

"I think . . . that I would like that very much," he says. Bonnie smiles back at him, takes back the notepad, and hunches over it, writing. She hands it to me, but before I can read from it, she catches my eye. I see concern there. I see a little bit of wisdom. Too much for a girl her age, I guess. I also see more of that unending serenity.

Brace yourself, but don't be afraid, she seems to be telling me. I read what she wrote and understand why. My eyes go wide. My breathing stops. A moment later, a tear runs down my cheek against my will. I feel like I am falling.

My pain is blood in the water for Juan. His nostrils flare.

"Tell me," he says.

I look at Bonnie, numb. Despair creeps through me. A gift to Juan? True enough. He was going to love this, that evil part of him. Why would she want to give him this terrible, terrible thing?

She reaches up and wipes the tear from my cheek.

Go on, her smile says. Trust me.

I take a breath.

"She says . . ." I stop. "She says that she decided if her mother couldn't speak, then neither would she."

Juan is as affected by this as I was, for very different reasons. His mouth opens and he sits back. He blinks rapidly. His breathing is shallow.

The Joy of Suffering.

I look at Bonnie. "Can we go now?" I ask. I feel hollow. I want to go home and climb under the covers and weep.

She holds up a finger.

One more thing, she's saying.

She turns to Juan and smiles that wonderful, beautiful, serene smile. It's everything Sarah's face in the kitchen wasn't, and it makes Juan frown. It makes him uncomfortable.

"But I've changed my mind," she says, her voice clear and distinct.

"I've decided it's time to speak again."

I stand up in my chair so fast it crashes backward.

"Bonnie!" It comes out as a scream.

She stands as well. She tucks her notepad under her arm and takes my hand. "Hi, Smoky."

Now I'm the one who's speechless.

"Let's go home," she says. She turns to Juan. Less serenity, now.

"Burn in hell, Mr. Juan."

He regards her, angered and yet contemplative.

Does he see? I wonder.

In this moment, in some ways, Bonnie was the angel Juan had once been. Un-conflicted and pure, she had no pity for him, no concern for what he was, only certainty of what he'd become. She'd given him a gift of despair, and taken it away by giving me a gift of triumph.

I was happier, standing in that interrogation room with that evil, damaged man, than I'd been in a very, very long time. Which was her point to me, to us, to anyone:

However bad things may become, evil men only triumph in the most important ways when we let them.

That was also the moment I realized I wasn't going to take the offer of Quantico. I was done running. In that moment, once again, life began to glow.

It always will. You just have to let it.

63

I SIT IN THE CHAIR IN FRONT OF MATT'S COMPUTER, AND I STARE at the screen. I have a shot of tequila in my hand, ready and willing to help me. Liquid courage.

I glance at the glass and frown.

Bonnie sleeps. I think of her strength compared to my weakness and I feel ashamed.

I put the glass down. I stare at the computer screen. 1for-two-me.

Five days. That's how much time passed from my first meeting with Sarah to Juan's capture. More days have gone by since then, but it's the five days that stick with me like they were years. I carry a new scar, Sarah's scar. It isn't visible, but the deepest cuts are the ones unseen, the march to death inside. The body ages and withers and dies. A soul can age as well. A six-year-old can become sixty in the span of a heartbeat.

Unlike the body, the soul can reverse this process, and become, perhaps not young again, but vital. Alive.

Sarah's journey cut me deep. My own journeys have aged me, too far, too fast. But scars are more than reminders of past wounds. They are evidence of healing.

I accept as a truth that I will always have moments of pain when it comes to Matt and Alexa. That's okay. The only way to be free of them forever would be to forget them, and I won't give up a blessed moment. I accept that I will have moments of great fear when it comes to Bonnie, and I accept that this may never go away. All parents fear for their children, and I have more reason to fear than most. I am flawed, I'm not unharmed by the past, but I am alive and I'm pretty sure I'll be happy more often than I'm not. Pretty sure parts of my life will continue to glow.

More than that, I cannot ask. Hope for. But not ask. We finished packing away the house, Bonnie and I. We had converted Alexa's room into Bonnie's studio, a fitting memorial. The last thing, now.

1for-two-me.

I've come to realize that my fear of this is not just the fear of what I might find.

You love a person, you live with them, you marry them. You spend your whole life getting to know them. I learned something new about Matt every day, every month, every year. Then he died, and the learning stopped. Until now.

If I invoke 1for-two-me, and look through that folder marked Private, I may learn something good or bad, but however it goes, it will be the last new thing I'll ever learn about my husband. I'm afraid of that finality.

Maybe I should save it. Save it for a day when I'm old and gray and I'm missing him.

I ignore my tequila, and I lean forward and click on the folder. I enter the password and gain access. I see the icons that indicate that the files are photographs. They're all numbered. I poise the mouse-arrow over one, and pause. What am I going to see if I click this?

For a moment, just a moment, I consider deleting it all. Letting it go. I click the first, and it opens before me. My jaw drops. It's a picture of me. Me and Matt. Having sex.

I squint, looking closer, remembering. The picture was taken from the side, so that our bodies are in profile. My head is back, and my eyes are closed in ecstatic concentration. Matt is looking down on me, his mouth slightly open.

It's not artistic, but it's not anatomically explicit, either. It looks like an amateur photograph. Which it is.

Matt and I went through a period, a time I've learned many couples do. Where sex becomes a subject of concentrated fascination and exploration. You try things, experiment, leave your comfort zone a little. Eventually you find your middle ground, a place that contains the balance of the things that excite you without shaming you. It's a fumbling time, full of mistakes. It requires trust. Exploration is not always graceful. Sometimes it can be mortifying.

Matt and I had explored taking pictures of each other nude, and of some of our sex together. It excited us at first, but it didn't last. It wasn't something we were ashamed of, it was just something we were done with. We tried it, it was interesting, we moved on. I move through the photos, opening them one after the other, remembering each moment. There are photos of me by myself, trying to be saucy (but looking silly). I find one photo of Matt, sitting on the bed, back against the headboard. He's grinning. I close my eyes. I don't need the photograph. I see the grin, I see that mussed-up hair, the twinkle in his eyes. I can see his cock, and I remember thinking once that I knew it better than any woman anywhere, it had been in me and on me and against me. I had touched it and giggled at it, and I had gotten angry at it when it was too demanding. I had lost my virginity to it. My eyes are stinging. These, I think, are moments that will never come again. I don't know what my future will bring in terms of love and companionship. I do know that I'll never be that young again, that I'll never feel the need to explore that particular thing again. Matt and I had covered that ground. We'd fucked and fought and laughed and cried and learned, and that curiosity was done and gone. This was his, only his.

"1for-two-me, babe." I smile, tears running down my cheeks. Matt doesn't reply. He smiles at me. Waiting.

Say the words, that smile says.

So I do.

"Good-bye, Matt."

I close the folder.

64

"YOU READY TO GO?" TOMMY ASKS.

"Zip me up and then my answer will be yes," I say. He does so and then pulls me into him with his one good arm. He kisses my neck. It has a familiar, comfortable feel. I hear the sound of footsteps. My precocious daughter appears in the doorway. She rolls her eyes and makes an icky face.

"Geez, can't you guys give it a rest? I want to go see Sarah."

"Yes, yes, munchkin." I smile, disengaging myself from Tommy.

"We're ready."

A month had passed. Sarah had stayed curled into herself for a week. A week after that, she began speaking again. Theresa and Bonnie and Elaina spent hours by her bedside in the hospital, coaxing her away from her despair.

It was Cathy Jones who'd finally gotten through to her, though. Callie had brought the cop to the hospital. Sarah had seen her and burst into tears. Cathy had gone to her and grabbed her up and we left them alone.

Theresa was as wonderful and resilient as Sarah had described her. She hadn't had much interest in getting better or being coddled. She wanted one thing and one thing only: to see Sarah. She had a strength to her, a warmth, that Juan had failed to extinguish, and she gives me hope for Sarah.

Last week, I got the call. Sarah was coming home. Really coming home--the home she'd had to leave so many years ago. The irony of this gift coming from Juan wasn't lost on any of us. We didn't care. Cathy had moved in, at Theresa's request. Theresa had cleaned the place from top to bottom, had thrown open all the shutters and let the light in again. She'd hung the painting on the wall above the foot of Sarah's bed.

I'd had an idea, as well, a possibility. With Theresa's help, I checked it out and found it to be true. We had a homecoming gift that we were all pretty sure Sarah would like.

"Are we almost there?" Bonnie asks.

"Pretty close," Tommy says. "I just need to remember which turn to take. Darn snaky Malibu streets."

"It's a left," Bonnie replies, patient. "I memorized the map."

I sit back and enjoy hearing the sound of Bonnie's voice. It is magic to me. Music.

"Here we are."

We pull up. Elaina and Theresa and Callie come out to greet us, followed by a surprise guest--Kirby.

"Is she here?" Bonnie asks, running up to them.

"Yes." Elaina smiles. "She's inside, resting."

Bonnie heads toward the door at a dead run.

"I see where we stand in the order of things now," Callie says. "We are uninteresting, honey-love, uninteresting and old."

"Speak for yourself, Red," Kirby chirps. "I'm going to be young forever."

"That's because you're going to die before you get old," Brady drawls, appearing from inside the house.

He and Callie are dating. I remember her telling me about her problems with relationships, about how "her cup runneth under,"

and wonder if this is changing. I hope so. Her hand still strays to her jacket pocket for the Vicodin more than I would like, and that outcome is uncertain, but there are different kinds of pain, and the hurt of loneliness well . . . there are no pills for that one. It swoops down on me from nowhere, not a bat or a dove but something in between. Alan, haunted by the sounds of a shrieking mother. Callie, perfect on the outside, delicately maimed within. Me and my scars. I realize we trade pleasures and pains, back and forth forever, eating our donuts as we search for the glow near the watering hole. And that's okay. That's life. Still the best alternative to death.

"So," Theresa says, excited. "Are you going to go get it?"

I grin. "Right now. I'll meet everyone inside."

The group heads indoors. They'll be joined before too long by others that are coming. Callie's daughter and grandson. Barry Franklin. People who had been touched by Juan, or who simply wanted to give Sarah hope. People who wanted the cycle to end at Juan. To ensure that Sarah was not, in fact, A Ruined Life.

I go next door and knock. A moment later, it opens. Jamie Overman is there, and she invites me in. Her husband appears next to her.

"Thanks for doing this," I tell them. "And not just this. Thanks for making it possible."

John is a shy man. He smiles and says nothing. Jamie nods once.

"It's our pleasure. Sam and Linda were good neighbors and good people. Let me get her for you now."

She wanders off and in a moment she comes back with what I want. Something from the past that I think will give Sarah some hope. I look down at the Hope Giver, something alive from a long dead past. She's older, slower, grayer. But I see a spark of dumb love and expectancy in her eyes that makes me grin.

"Hey there, Doreen," I say, squatting down so that we're at eye level. She wags her tail and she licks my face.

Hi back and I love you and what are we doing?

"Let's go, sweetheart. I want to reintroduce you to someone. She needs you."