Blossom

"Cured, huh?"

"Yeah, cured. You think it's impossible? Would you want to be arrested every time the cops had a hijacking case open?"

Davidson chuckled. "He's got you, Burke."

"He's got a baby-raper."

"You mean you won't help?"

"What do I give a flying fuck if some skinner falls for something he didn't do? Probably didn't pull enough time on his first bit anyway."

Davidson lit his cigar. "It wouldn't shake me up if he went down either. But if he didn't do this one, it means the guy who did, he's got a free pass."

I thought it through. "You got any money?" I asked the young lawyer.

"I could go five hundred."

"For that, I'll talk to your guy. You walk me in there, tell them I'm your assistant or something. I'll talk to him. He's telling the truth, I'll look around for you."

"How will you know?"

"I'll know," I assured him.

He looked at Davidson. The husky man nodded.

"Okay," the kid said. "When can you go?"

"When can you pay?"

"I'll write you a check right now."

Davidson thought that was almost as funny as I did.

29

I LOOKED MORE like a lawyer than the kid did when I met him the next morning on the steps of the Brooklyn House of Detention. The guards let us pass without a question. Getting into jail is always easy.

They brought him down to the Attorneys' Conference Room. He was medium height, nice-looking in an undistinctive way. Powerfully built, well-defined upper body in a white T-shirt. Shook hands firmly, looked me deep in the eye, moving his lips to make sure he got my name right.

"Rodriguez, huh?" He smiled. "You don't look Puerto Rican."

"You don't look like a baby-raper," I said, lighting a cigarette, flicking a glance at his face over my hands cupped around the wooden match.

His expression didn't change, no color flashed on his cheeks. Calm inside himself. He was used to this— a therapy veteran.

The young lawyer pulled his chair away from the table, sat back in a corner, his yellow legal pad open on his lap. My play.

I worked the perimeter, tapping softly at the corners. The way you crack a pane of glass during a burglary— the quieter you go in, the easier you go out.

"You were up in New Hampshire when it happened?"

"Yes. Buying stock for my store at the flea markets."

"What kind of store do you have?"

"I call it Inexplik. Not really antiques, anything people collect. Glass bottles, baseball cards, first editions, dolls, knives, Hummel figurines, commemorative plates, proof sets…like that."

"You have anything special in mind you were looking for when you were up there?"

"Well, there's always things you look for. I mean, I know what my regular customers want and all. Like Barbie dolls…you can always sell them. But you have to keep your eyes open, spot hot items before people know what they're worth. Like those plastic compacts women used to carry around in the '50s. The kind with mirrors on the inside? They come in all shapes and colors. Right now, you can get them for a song, but they're going to be very, very collectible soon."

He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. The nails were bitten to the quick, ragged skin around the sides. He saw where I was looking, folded his hands across his chest.

"Can you still buy handguns up there?" I asked.

"I guess so. I mean, they have them right on the tables. But they're against the law in New York. I wouldn't mess with them. Besides, gun collectors are just a different breed from the people I deal with."

He was emphasizing the wrong words, arching an eyebrow when he did— a squid throwing out ink.

"You're not gay." My voice was flat— it wasn't a question.

His mouth smiled like it was a separate part of his face. Not answering like that was the answer.

"Homosexuals don't rape little girls," I said, my voice flat.

"No, they don't," he agreed.

"They don't rape little boys either."

"Huh?"

"Didn't they tell you what you were when you had all that therapy?"

His right hand squeezed his left wrist, hard. Muscles twitched along his forearm. "What I was."

"Say it."

His eyes were a soft, brooding brown, muddy around the rim where they bled into the white, hard in the tiny circles around the pupils. "A pedophile, that's what they said."

"But you're all better now?"

"I still have feelings…but I have something else now. Control. Feelings don't hurt anyone."

"No. They don't, Roger. When you got busted for this, the cops search your house?"

"Yes! They tore the place apart."

"Come up empty?"

"Yes, they did. I don't even know what they were looking for."

I lit another smoke, patient. When you work freaks, you don't feel yourself getting warm. The closer you get to the center, the more you feel the chill. "They search your store too?"

"Yes."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"How about if I take a look myself?"

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "What for?"

"Oh, I think I could find something. Maybe something that would crack this case."

"Like what?"

"You deal with collectors, right?"

He nodded, watching.

"And you got a computer somewhere around…keep track of the merchandise?"

"Yes."

"Got it crash-coded?"

"How come you…?"

"I got a friend. Real genius with those things. She knows how to get inside, past the crash-codes…"

"No!"

"Sure, Roger. You're not making any money selling that flea-market crap, are you? Not real money. Like you said, you have to know what your customers want."

He turned to the young lawyer. "Can he do this?"

The young lawyer shrugged. "We're just trying to help."

"This is all privileged, right?"

"All privileged," the kid assured him.

"If I did…uh, share with other collectors, that wouldn't prove anything."

"Nothing at all," I told him. "In fact, it would explain a lot of things. Like how you really make a living. And how come you can make it through the night. We both know you guys never stop. Like you said, feelings don't hurt. Looking at pictures, that don't hurt either."

"That's right. The pictures, they're an… outlet, you understand? A release valve. Those therapists, they don't understand the need. The drive. I'm my own therapist now. I can look at the pictures, fantasize in my mind." Watching my face. "And get off when I have to, when the drive pressures me. In the institution, they tried to take that away from us. Control our thoughts. Fascists. We had to look at the pictures and then they'd shock us. Blast us with electricity. It hurt.

After a while, I couldn't even get a hard-on when I saw beautiful little pictures."

He was crying, face in his hands. They taught him how to do that inside the walls too. I waited for it to stop.

"It doesn't matter, Roger," I told him, voice low, soft-cored. "The rape went down at four forty-five in the afternoon. You were spotted just before two at the flea market. It's almost two hundred and fifty miles from there to Brooklyn. No way it could have been you."

He looked up, tears streaking his face. I went on like I'd never stopped. "There's a two-twenty flight out of Keene, New Hampshire. Air New England. Flies to the Marine Air Terminal just past La Guardia. Five minutes from the BQE. Maybe another twenty, thirty minutes to Brooklyn."

He went quiet. I felt the young lawyer stiffen behind me.

"I drove my car up there," he said.

"But you didn't drive it back, did you? One of your freak friends, another collector, he did that, right? Then maybe he flew to Boston, where he had another car waiting of his own. You guys trade these little favors, don't you? Like you trade the pictures?"

"You're crazy! You think I raped some little girl in the back of a taxicab?"

"I think you have two cars, Roger. There's the van you use for your business. The one you drove up to New Hampshire. And one you keep for prowling. You drive the car to the Marine Air Terminal, park it in the lot there, take a cab home. Then you drive the van to the flea market. Get yourself seen. Take the plane back here, hop in your car, and go to work."

I lit another smoke. "The cops'll find the other car, Roger. They'll check the passenger manifest list for the airline. And they'll find your friend too. It won't be hard."

"You can't tell them any of this. Attorney-client privilege. You said so."

"There's something special about kids, isn't there, Roger? That soft, smooth skin. How they got no hair anywhere on their little bodies."

"Shut up!"

"They'll find that car, Roger. And they'll find the kid's blood in the back seat. You're going inside. Again. For a long fucking time."

"I'm sick…you can't…"

"You're a maggot. A maggot down for Rape One. Of a child. With force and violence. And you're a two-time loser. So it's the Bitch for you. Habitual Offender. That's a life top in this state. But look at the good side: they don't do therapy on lifers. You'll be all alone in your cell, and you can paint your freak pictures in your mind all you want. You're done."

"You can't tell! I know all about it. You can't tell— you'll lose your license."

"Hey, Roger. I'll never tell. But if some smart cop decides to look for that other car of yours, that's just the breaks, huh?"

He came across the table then, reaching for my throat. I jammed the stiffened fingers of my right hand into his diaphragm, shifted my hands to the back of his neck as the breath shot out his mouth, snapped his face hard into the top of the table. By the time I felt the young lawyer's hands reaching around my chest to pull me off I was done.

I was faster then. Smarter now.

30

I COULDN'T WATCH his eyes, so I listened to his breathing. Feeling the rhythm, waiting for ragged to go smooth. For that twilight sleep to settle into REM. That's why they do surgery past midnight and before dawn— it's when the body shuts down, goes limp inside. The knife goes in easier.

The luminous dial of my fancy watch said 3:45. The kid was under, quiet now. I fished a quarter from my pocket, tapped it softly against the leg of my cot. An answering tap from Virgil. Awake, and ready. I flexed my upper body, pulling into a sitting position without using my hands. The kid didn't stir. Virgil sat up too— I could see his shape in the darkness. He followed me around the corner to the furnace. A whispered conversation, and we were ready to work.

31

"GET UP, Lloyd." Virgil gripped the kid's shoulders, shook him gently.

The kid moaned, whimpering something, still half asleep. I wouldn't want his dreams. We let him use the bathroom, throw some cold water on his face. Not saying anything, letting him feel the pressure. When he came back to the main room, we had a straight chair set up. It wouldn't be light for a couple of hours. I sat directly across from the kid, within whispering distance. Virgil was a few feet away, sitting on an angle to us, something dark on his lap.

"Here's the way it works, Lloyd," I told him, neutral-voiced. Working it flexible: soft to hard, hard to soft. First the shell, then the center. "You and I have a talk. About all this stuff that's been going on. And you tell me the truth. You always tell me the truth. About everything. Every single time. You know why?"

"I told the truth, I…"

"You know why, Lloyd?" Shifting my voice a notch closer to hard. His eyes flicked up to mine, sulky. Dropped. "Because that's the way I'll know, see?" I said. "I find out you lied about one thing… any thing…then you're a liar, understand? And you didn't shoot those kids, did you?"

"No!"

"And that's the truth, isn't it?"

"Yes. I swear."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

"Yes!"

"Lloyd," I said, my voice laced with a tinge of sorrow, like it was out of my hands. "That's what you're doing, boy. Don't lie. Don't let me catch you in a lie. No matter what the truth is, tell it to me." I leaned forward. "Nothing's as bad as dying, Lloyd. Anything else, me and Virgil, we could fix it. But don't lie."

"I…won't."

I leaned back, lit a smoke, nodding my head to seal the deal. He didn't ask for one. Virgil didn't move.

"You got friends at school?"

"Yes. I mean, maybe…not really. Friends. I mean, guys I talk to but…"

"But you work alone?"

"At the store?"

"No, Lloyd. When you go out at night. You walk by yourself?"

"Sometimes…"

"You look in windows?"

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

"It's all right, Lloyd. I know about the windows. Nobody ever sees you, huh?"

"No."

"You do that at home too? Before you moved up here?"

"Just a couple of times."

"It's okay. Take it easy. You're telling the truth. Nothing to worry about. You ever take your rifle with you? When you go out walking?"

"No. I never did. I swear."

"You ever let them see you?"

"Who?"

"The women. The women in the windows."

"No. I wouldn't want…"

"You ever take it out, play with it…while you watch?"

"Nooo. No. I just wanted to… see them…see what they look like…just…"

"Okay. You were scared…when you went out walking?"

"Not…scared. Like, uh…nervous, you know?"

"I know." Shifting gears— same highway. "Those magazines. The ones the cops found in your room. Where'd you get them?"

"I sent away for them."

"What kind of magazines were they?"

"About…women. I…"

"There's more of 'em over in the corner— found 'em down in the basement." Virgil's voice. Like saying the milk was in the refrigerator. "You want to see them?"

"Yeah."

He got up, came back with a foot-high stack, bound with twine. Dropped it on the floor next to my chair, pulled at the cord. A knot unraveled.

"Lloyd know these were here?" I asked him.

"Yeah. Never touched them either," he said, answering my next question.

I shone my pocket flash on the first one. "Beauty in Chains." Women bound, gagged, blindfolded. In street clothes, some half dressed, some nude. Bent over chairs, standing on tiptoe, hands suspended over their heads, hog-tied. Helpless. Ropes, straps, handcuffs. They were all like that. All the same. Some had the covers pulled off. A few had pages ripped out. Not neatly cut. Jagged edges. Torn.

"How much did these cost?" I asked Lloyd.

"Twenty-five dollars was the most. Some were fifteen, one was only five."

In the underbelly of the human heart, dirt isn't cheap.

"You look at these?" I asked Virgil. Buying time. Something about the magazines. Something past the obvious. The way inside.

"I looked at them." His voice was flat, giving nothing away.

I lit another smoke, turning the pages, getting the feel. Lloyd watching me. Waiting for the judgment.

It came to me. "The pages you ripped out…where are they?"

"I threw them away."

"No you didn't."

"I did! I mean…I didn't throw them away exactly…I…burned them."

"Where?"

"In the woods. Just past the dunes. I made a campfire. Every time."

"Every time?"

"Every time a new one came…with those pictures."

I dragged on my smoke, looking down the white barrel of the cigarette, visually placing the red tip in the center of Lloyd's out-of-focus face. Like the laser-dot from a sniper rifle. Zeroing in. "What was in the pictures, Lloyd? The pictures you burned up."

He made a strangling sound deep in his throat.

I felt Virgil settle into himself. Knowing it was important, not knowing why. Knowing he had to wait. He had a hunter's patience. I had a convict's.

Lloyd felt the weight. "Could I have a smoke?"

"When it's over. What was in the pictures?"

He took short, shallow breaths. The blankets were coming off and he knew it was going to be cold.

"The pictures…they were getting hurt."

"The women?"

"Yes. I couldn't look at them."

"Who was hurting them?"

"Men, mostly. Sometimes other women."

"Tell me."

"They beat them. Whipped them. Even…c-c-cut them once. Ugly. So ugly…"

He was crying. Not a sociopath's tears. Crying for someone else. It felt right. I had to be sure. I probed the wound, watching for the runoff. Clean or dirty. Blood or pus. "You don't like other people in your pictures, Lloyd?"

"Other people…?"

"You can't own the women if there's somebody else there. They wouldn't be all yours."

"All mine? They're not mine. I just wanted to see…not be so…"

"Afraid?"

"Yes." Sobbing now.

"When they're helpless…tied up…you can look all you want? Like when they're in the windows?"

"Yes."

I couldn't close the wound until it was clean. The scalpel probed again. "Lloyd, you ever see a dead woman?"

"No."

"Ever want to see one?"

"No! God. No. Dead?"

I zoned in on his face, going into his skull, reaching out, searching to see if that maggoty little worm of evil was there. My voice was soft, smoothing the road, stroking the beast to full boil. "A dead woman, Lloyd. A dead naked woman. Just lying there. You could do whatever you wanted. She'd be all yours. She'd never say anything. Whatever you wanted to do…"

He stumbled from the chair, staggering past me, making wounded-animal sounds. I held up my hand to stop Virgil from going after him.

We heard him hit the floor in the bathroom. Heard the low grunting scream— ripped from his guts like he'd ripped the pictures from his tortured mind. Projectile vomiting, his lungs hitting the top of his throat.

When he got his breath, he used it for crying.

32

AFTER A WHILE, the crying was over. My work wasn't. I nodded to Virgil. We walked around the concrete corner, found the kid sitting in his own stink, face in his hands. Drained.

"Get on your feet," I told him. "Clean yourself up."

He made noises. Didn't move.

"Now," I told him, voice hard.

"I can't."

I turned on the shower full blast. Virgil grabbed the kid under his armpits, hauled him to his feet. I turned the hose on him. He sagged in Virgil's hands. The water hit him clean, ran off foul.

We let him finish the job himself. Waited while he toweled himself off. He came back inside wearing an old red flannel bathrobe. I pointed at the chair. He sat down again.

Virgil tossed him a pack of cigarettes. It landed in the kid's lap. He didn't move, didn't raise his head.

"It's okay, Lloyd," I said, propping him up for what had to come.

"I told the truth." His voice was thin, sad.

"I know. But we're not done. Can you light that cigarette?"

"I don't know." Fumbling in his lap.

"Try."

A wooden match flared in Virgil's hand. He was kneeling next to the kid, one hand on his shoulder. Lloyd got it going, took a deep drag. Coughed. Took another. The early dawn light seeped in. The boy's skin was transparent, the skull showing through.

"You re scared of women, Lloyd?"

"I…think so."

"But you like them?"

"Yes. I do…like…them. I think I do. But when they talk to me…"

"I know. Someone told you they wouldn't like you, didn't they? Someone told you they'd know something about you…"

His shoulders shook like he was freezing. Crying again, the cigarette dropping from his hand. Virgil plucked it off the kid's lap, one hand still on his shoulder, trying to send his strength into his wife's cousin. Not knowing why yet, trusting what he felt.

I lit a cigarette of my own. Centering myself, watching the red dots that always danced before my eyes when the freaks played with kids. Remembering. Getting past it. Like I had a long time ago. When I made my choices.

"Who was it, Lloyd?" I asked him. Voice soft, not waiting for the answer. "Your mother's boyfriend? A teacher? The coach? Your uncle?"

I let Virgil's rock-hard core work its way into the boy's guts. Waiting for the anchor to set.

"How did…how d'you know?"

"I know who did it. Not his name. But I know him. They're all alike. Listen to me, Lloyd. They're all liars. You told us the truth here. And you're going to beat this. He lied to you. As soon as you tell us everything, I'll start to prove it to you."

"Ain't nobody gonna hurt you, son." Virgil's voice. The kid caught the last word, grabbed at it like a lifeline. He wouldn't have to face the monster alone.

Anymore.

"It was the preacher," he said. "The preacher."

"Yeah. When did it start?"

"When I was nine. Just before I was ten. Just before my birthday. He had model race cars. Radio-controlled. He used to take me to the races. He said, when I was ten, he'd let me steer one in a time trial."

"And your mother, she thought it was great, you spending time with him?"

"She sure did. My real father, I don't know where he is. Mama said the preacher was a good man. I think she liked him herself, you know? Always inviting him over for dinner, saying like he needed a wife to make a home for him and all. He was nice to me. Took me for rides in his car, bought me a baseball glove. Like I was his own son, Mama said."

"How'd it happen? He show you some pictures?"

"Pictures. Little boys, with no clothes on. That's the way it started. He'd let me play with the video games he had in his house if I took my clothes off. I didn't want to do it, but…in the pictures, like…boys were doing all kinds of things without their clothes on. Like he said. It was a natural thing. For a special treat once, he took me camping. He told me stories, about wolves and bears in the woods. I wasn't scared, but he said he'd better let me in his sleeping bag so I would be okay. It felt…weird…but…he was the preacher and all…"

"It's okay."

"He said we had a special love. A special secret love, he said. He said God picked me for him, 'cause I was special. It was a mark, a mark only certain people could see. A mark on me."

"And you couldn't tell anyone…"

"Couldn't tell anyone. Couldn't make him stop."

"So you started to get into trouble…"

"To make it stop. When I got to be around thirteen, I felt things inside of me. I thought, maybe they'd put me away someplace, like in one of those juvenile homes…and…stealing cars…riding by myself…I felt scared but… good, you know?"

I knew.

"How'd you know where to buy those magazines?"

"He had them. Not like mine. Bad ones. I copied down the address where he sent away for them."

Virgil lit a smoke, handed it to Lloyd. The kid dragged on it greedily, blowing it out his nose and mouth at the same time.

"Did the preacher know where your mother sent you?"

"Yeah. He wrote to me. Telling me I'd be back soon and we'd have good times again. He even said maybe he'd come up here to visit me just before school starts in the fall."

"Those pictures…the ones you saved…not the ones you ripped out. You thought women could see this mark you have on you?"

"That's what he said. He said they'd always see it. And maybe they'd laugh at me. Or worse. He said women are evil. Nasty, smelly evil things. Down there."

"But you like them, don't you, Lloyd?"

He nodded.

"You know what that means?"

"No."

"Listen to me, now. Listen good. It means the preacher was a liar. There's no mark on you. There never was. Women won't hurt you…not the ways the preacher said they would. You're a man— you'll be a man. The preacher can't change that."

"The stuff…he made me do…I…"

"It doesn't mean anything, Lloyd. Nothing. You want to know about women, you're curious about them. That's natural, okay? All young men, they feel like that. Tying them up so they can't hurt you…peeking in windows so you can watch without them seeing you…you don't need that. There's other ways."

"How?" Spark of desperate hope in his eyes.

"You'll see. Me and Virgil, we'll show you. It'll take some time, but it's going to be all right. All right, understand?"

He nodded. Wanting it to be true.

"Lloyd? One of the kids around here, he told the cops they were sneaking around, looking in on parked cars. Remember?"

"Yes. It's true. I was with them."

"And you told the other kids that you hated them…that maybe something should happen to them?"

"I didn't mean it. It just…hurt so bad. That they could be with girls and I couldn't. The mark…"

"The mark is gone, boy. It never was there. It was a lie. And this is the truth. Don't hate women. Don't be afraid of them. They never did anything to you."

"I…"

"But somebody did, Lloyd. The man who told you about evil…that's what he was. Understand?"

The kid ground out his cigarette. Hands shaking, but his voice was steady then— hot wire of pain burning. "I hate him," he said.

"That's the first step," I told him.

33

I PULLED OUT BEFORE the full morning light. Switched the Chevy for the Lincoln. Left the stack of magazines in the Chevy's trunk. Rebecca's cousins would know what to do with whatever they found back there.

Back in the motel, I took a shower. Slept until noon.

34

WHEN I GOT UP, I called Glenda. Nobody asking for me. I put on my prospector's outfit and went into the streets to look around.

Found a pay phone. Dumped in a handful of quarters, dialed the Mole's junkyard. Heard the phone picked up at the other end. The Mole never answered— he just waited.

"It's me. The Prof call in?"

"Every day." It was Terry's voice. Like father, like son.

"Tell him I'm okay. Keep checking, okay?"

"Sure."

I drifted in loops, looking for enough vacant land to build a racetrack on.

After a couple of hours, I realized I'd never get a feel for these streets without some help. I wasn't tuned in— couldn't feel the heat. If there was any.

35

IT WAS ALMOST five when I pulled into the parking lot of the diner. I found my way to the booth in the back, lit a smoke, waited.

Blossom came to the table, a menu tucked under one arm, order pad open in her hand.

"What'll it be?"

I looked up just in time to see Cyndi smoothly bump her hip into Blossom, pushing the blonde woman aside. "This is my table, honey," she said, flashing a smile.

"It's been your table the past half hour, girl."

"I was on my break. Now shove off, okay?"

Blossom gave her a "watch your step" look and moved away, not looking back.

"Thought I'd see you last night. After I got off," Cyndi said, a tentative smile on her lips, not showing any teeth.

"Business. Never know when I'm going to get a call."

"Like they leave messages for you and stuff?"

"Or call me in the car."

"Oh! You've got one of those car phones?"

"Yeah."

"They're pretty expensive, huh?"

"Business expense."

"That's what I'd like to be," she said, puffing out her chest. "A business expense."

"No you wouldn't. Kleenex is Kleenex, no matter how much it costs."

"What d'you mean?"

"When you're done with it, you throw it out."

"I know. But…nothing lasts forever, right?"

"Wrong."

"Oh." She tapped one shoe. Waiting for the bus. Not sure where it was going, but sure it was coming.

I lit a cigarette, not in a hurry.

"You want tuna again?"

"Ah…I'm not sure. Look, I have to work again tonight. Late."

"That's okay. I mean…maybe you could come by after…"

"No. It'll be real late. Way too late. But if you're getting off at six, maybe we could have dinner together. Before I go to work."

"Dinner?"

"Yeah."

"And then…"

"I'll take you home."

She smoothed the sides of her skirt with the palms of her hands. Bit her lip. "I'd…like that."

"Okay. Then just bring me a chocolate milkshake and some dry toast. I'll wait here until you get off."

"Coming up."

I ground out my smoke. Found the pay phone in the back. Called my pal John the real estate broker. He didn't have topographical maps of the area right there in his office but he sure as shooting could get me some. Have them for me by tomorrow afternoon.

I sipped the milkshake. Nibbled at the toast. Watched the traffic outside the window. The joint was near-empty. Not a hangout— it flowered at mealtimes, lay dormant in between.

It wasn't quite six when Cyndi bounced up to my table.

36

I HELD THE passenger door for her while she climbed inside, her chubby thighs flashing in the late afternoon sun. Wearing a black silk blouse over a red miniskirt, black spikes on her feet.

"I hope this is okay?"

"What?"

"This…outfit. I mean…for going out to dinner and all."

"It's fine. You look lovely."

"Thank you." Ran her hand over the seat cushion. "Leather. It even smells good. Where're we going?"

"You tell me, Cyndi— I don't know this town. Someplace nice. And quiet. Where we don't need a reservation, okay?"

"You mean nice nice? Like fancy?"

"Sure."

"Can we go to Ricardo's? I've never been there, but I heard it's real nice."

"Sure."

I followed her directions. Ricardo's was in Hammond. A small joint backed up against the lake. The lot had only a half dozen cars sitting there.

Instead of a maitre d', there was a plastic sign on a stand. Please Wait to Be Seated.

A dark-haired hostess in a cocktail dress came over. Looked Cyndi up and down, glanced at me long enough to calculate the cost of everything I had on. Asked, "Two for dinner?" and led us to a table ten feet from the kitchen.

"Will this be all right?"

"How about one of those tables?" I asked, nodded my head in the direction of a long, low window.

"They're all reserved, sir."

"All?"

"I believe so.

"I'll call next time," I said, starting over in that direction, tapping Cyndi at her waist to come along. The hostess trailed after us, stopping at the first table at the end of the row.

"Perhaps this one?" she asked, her face set.

"Fine."

"Your waiter will be with you shortly."

I held Cyndi's chair for her. Picked a tiny box of wooden matches from the white tablecloth, cracked a flame, lit a smoke.

The waiter looked like he'd done time back when it was a credential. He must have caught the action with the hostess. Bowed to Cyndi. "Good evening, madam. Sir. My name is Charles. I'll be serving you this evening. Can I get you something to drink before dinner…perhaps some champagne?"

"Could I…?"

I nodded, cutting her off. "Some champagne for the lady. Whatever you recommend. I'll have ginger ale over ice."

"Very good, sir."

Cyndi looked around like a kid at the circus. A kid who'd never been before. "Oh, wow! This is beautiful. And they treat you so nice. I didn't want to order champagne. I mean, I love it and all, but they always water it down, you know."

"Not here."

"I guess not. I mean…not with men serving the booze, right?"

37

SHE CHATTERED on through her London broil. I told her why I was there. How I studied the local newspapers for a few weeks before I ever came into a town to work. She nodded, paying attention, mouth full.

The waiter cleared the plates away, doing it right, easy on the "sir," not oiling it. He knew the difference between Atlantic City respect and the kind you earn with something other than cash.

Cyndi ordered chocolate mousse for dessert. I had the lemon water ice they called sorbet.

I lit a smoke. "Seems like the hot story around here's been that sniper…the one shooting those kids who go parking in lovers' lane."

"Oh, they caught him. It was some kid, believe it or not. One of those crazy teenagers. God, I'm glad he wasn't running around when I was a girl, as much time as I spent in parked cars."

"They sure they got the right one?"

"Well, I think so. I mean…you never know, right? But ever since they busted him, there's been no more."

"Shootings?"

"Yeah."

"Why d'you think he'd do it?"

"Well…oh God, I just realized…I feel so stupid…I don't even know your name."

"Mitchell. Mitchell Sloane."

"Mitch?"

"Sure."

"Mitch, I'll tell you…when I used to dance, some of those men who'd come in, they just flat out hated women. You know what I mean? The way they'd watch you sometimes, not smiling or anything. Why would they come to a topless joint if they hated us? It doesn't make sense, I know, but it's true. Mean men. You could always tell."

"You figure someone like that?"

"Maybe. I mean…why would a kid hate so much he'd want to kill people just for screwing outdoors? Maybe it was one of those religious nuts. We'd get them in the bar sometimes too. Always trying to save us."

38

IT WAS AFTER eight when we left the restaurant. I put the tab on American Express, tossed a trio of ten-spots on the table for Charles. "Always a pleasure to see you, madam," he said by way of goodbye to Cyndi. A man who knew how to act. He should get together with the hostess some night, teach her the facts of life.

I punched Glenda's line on the car phone, let Cyndi listen to the taped message play back through the speaker-phone. Hit the Retrieve key. The machine's computer-chip voice said, "Hello. You have no messages. You may hang up and I will reset the unit. Or enter remote code now to change your message."

"Where shall I take you?" I asked her.

"You really have to go to work tonight?"

"If I want to pay my bills."

"Well, I left my car at work. I mean, I didn't know you'd…"

The Lincoln whispered past the darkened dunes near the water.

"That's where it happened. One time."

"What?"

"The killings. That's where the kids go to park. Where they used to go."

"They'll find another place."

"They sure will."

I pulled into the diner. "Where's your car?"

"Around the back."

It was a red Chevy Beretta, looked new. One of those Garfield plastered against the back side window. Cute.

I turned off the ignition, flicked the switch for the power windows, lit a smoke.

"I'm not sure when I'll be by again. This work I'm doing, it takes you different places, different hours."

"Well, you don't have to come here to see me, honey. I mean, you can if you want, or call me here or anything." She fumbled in her purse. "You have a pen?"

I gave her one. She wrote down her phone number and her address in a careful, round schoolgirl's hand. "Here!"

"Thanks, Cyndi."

"You know, it's funny. Blossom, she tried to talk me out of going out with you. She said you were some kind of trouble. I mean, can you imagine…her telling me something about men. Like she'd know a preacher from a pimp."

"Maybe she does."

"Not old Blossom. That girl's so straight. I told her she could go ahead and wait for Mr. Right. I was gonna have some fun while I'm still young. She said that was okay. Said you looked like Mr. Wrong to her."

"I'm just a man. Passing through."

She slid across the seat to me, one hip hard against mine, twisting her breasts against my chest, her lips so close I couldn't see her eyes.

"Well, Mr. Just Passing Through, you make sure you come and see me before you make up your mind, huh?" Kissing me hard, the backs of her fingers trailing across my fly. I pressed my hand against the back of her blouse as I kissed her. No straps. The hostess had seen it before I had.

"I won't," I told her.

She kissed me again, promising.

I watched her climb into her red car and drive off.

39

I SWITCHED THE Lincoln for the Chevy and made my way to the hideout, thinking it through. Cyndi wasn't going to work. She was connected, but to the wrong side of the night. I needed somebody wired in at the other end. The sniper wouldn't be wearing a double-knit leisure suit with a white belt and gold chains. Even the topless bars would be too bright for his eyes.

When I got downstairs it looked the same. Except for a canvas sack suspended from a beam in the ceiling by a short length of towing chain. I tapped the bag— it was stuffed with something. I looked a question at Virgil.

"Heavy bag," he said. "Best I could do. Lloyd, he's one angry young pup. I figured, let him pound on it awhile, work some of that stuff out. Like we used to do inside."

"Good idea. He know how to do it?"

"He don't have a clue. Figured maybe you'd show him a few things, give him something to work on while he's down here."

The kid was sitting on his cot, watching me in the faint light. "Would you?" he asked.

"Sure. But first, we got to talk." His face fell. "All of us talk," I said. The kid brightened up at that.

I sat down, lit a smoke. "First of all, we got to get us some breathing room. The cops still want you guys— we got to make that right."

"Roll on in?" Virgil asked. Ready for it, if that's what it had to be.

"I think so. The detective, the one who came to your house . the one who scammed you into waiting till his partner came up with a search warrant…?"

"Sherwood, he said his name was. Don't know if it was first or last. Sherwood."

"How'd he strike you?"

Virgil gave it some thought, rolling it around in his mind. Knowing this wasn't casual conversation to kill time. Doing time teaches you the difference.

"Smart."

"Straight?"

"Yeah, I think so. There's all kindsa dope money in Gary. I heard something about him. He was up there, got in some beef with the bosses about shaking down crack houses. But the way I heard it, he was just too rough on the dealers, not grafting."

"You got a lawyer? For Lloyd?"

"Yeah. Bart Bostick. I got his name from one of the guys I play with in Chicago."

"You talk to him since you went to ground?"

"No."

I dragged on my cigarette, thinking. "I can contact him easy enough. Give him some references. We need someone to go in the middle for us. Make a come-in deal with a walk-away in front, okay? You and Lloyd surrender, they got to cut you loose even if they hold Lloyd."

"Let 'em hold me."

"It won't fly, Virgil. You're on a minor league thing and they know it. Besides, I need you out on the street. I don't know my way around out here."

"You already did your part, brother. You did what I needed you for. Lloyd, he didn't do this thing. That's enough for me. His family, we'll take it from here."

"What good is that? You know Lloyd didn't do it. Me too. So what? So he goes to jail and you all wait for him. Keep enough money on the books for him to stay in smokes? There's going to be a trial. They don't have much, but maybe they got enough. Lloyd's got no alibi and he looks good enough. Maybe not good, but good enough, you understand? They want a sniper, big time. He wouldn't be the first man to go down for something he didn't do."

"What's left?"

"Lloyd didn't do it, somebody did. There's a sniper-rapist out there."

"You could find him?"

"Remember what you called me for. I don't know who he is, Virgil, but I know what he is."

"It's not yours." The kid spoke up. "Like Uncle Virgil said, it's family. I'm family. I didn't do it. But I've been talking to Uncle Virgil. I know what it takes. I won't disgrace my people— I done enough of that already."

"Who asked you?"

"Mr. Burke." The kid's voice was steady now. Not deeper, but stronger. Growing into his lines. "I don't mean no disrespect. I know what you did for me. Like Uncle Virgil promised me— you'd find the truth…make it come out. My part's now…I'll go to trial. Stand up. Like I'm supposed to."

"Yeah. You want to go to jail, Lloyd? Make it right? Your uncle Virgil ever tell you how he came to do time?"

"Burke!"

"Hey, let me tell him, Virgil. You been pushing the truth like it's cocaine. You got the boy high on it."

"Whatever I did, it's long dead. It's the past— this is now."

"What you did, you didn't have choices at the time, right? The way you saw it? We got some choices now. More cards to play." I turned to face the kid. "Your uncle, he stabbed a man. A man who needed killing. The reason's not important now— what I told you is the truth. But Virgil, he did the same thing today, he'd maybe have enough sense to know he didn't have to go to prison. See, your uncle, he didn't want the whole truth to come out…"

Virgil got to his feet. Lit a smoke, watching me closely. Not trying to stop it now.

"Listen close, Lloyd. Your aunt Rebecca, she knew a man back home. A bad man, with ugliness inside him. Rebecca met Virgil. And she started her life over. The way people got a right to, okay? She came to Chicago. She and Virgil, they got together. Got married. Virgil was working, this man came around to see Rebecca. She told him to get lost. But he kept coming back. He put some pressure on her. Virgil, you know him, he's a proud man. And Rebecca, she knew how proud a man he was. She wasn't thinking of herself, just of him. So when this other guy came back with some pictures…pictures she thought would hurt Virgil…he gave her a choice…get back together with him or he'd go to Virgil. You understand?"

The kid nodded, laser-focused on my voice, nothing else in the room for him.

"Rebecca stabbed him. A whole bunch of times. Virgil came home in the middle of it. Nobody knows whether he finished the job or if the man was dead when he walked in the door. Rebecca told the police she did it. Virgil told them it was his work. They kept it in their family— never told the Man the real truth. Never even tried to bring it in front of a jury. And Virgil went to prison."

I tapped a cigarette filter on my thumbnail. Virgil stood against the wall.

"What could they've done?"

"Who knows? I wasn't there. Put the body in a Hefty bag, throw it in the trunk of the car, take it to the city dump. Chop it into little pieces and feed it down the drain in the bathtub. Carry him up to the roof and leave him there. Pack their clothes, dump gasoline all over the body, and leave the Arson Squad to figure it out. Whatever. It doesn't matter. You try something, it don't work, you're no worse off, see? But Virgil, all he thought about was protecting Rebecca…and Rebecca, all she wanted to do was take the weight on herself. They never even got their stories straight, they was so busy confessing on themselves."

"Virgil was a…"

"A what? A hero? A chump? Who knows…all we know is he was a convict."

"I…"

"Yeah, he's so family-crazy, this was some regular killing he thought you did, he'd probably walk down to the police, tell them he did it. Like he did before."

"I wouldn't let him."

"Take a look, kid. Look at your uncle. You think you could stop him?"

The kid looked. Saw the steel Virgil used for bone marrow. "What d'we do?"

"What we do is, we make some plans. Work the angles. It doesn't play, you can always go to jail. They're always open for business."

"Uncle Virgil…?"

"Lloyd, from now on, you just call me Virgil. A man don't call another man uncle anything, okay?"

A smile flashed across the kid's face. Then it was gone. His face hardened, jaw tightened. Shoulders straightened. Getting ready for it. "Okay," is all he said.

40

I CALLED BART BOSTICK'S office the next morning. His secretary got him on the line when I told her I couldn't give my name.

"This is Bostick."

"Mr. Bostick, my name is Burke. I'm from New York. You're representing a boy named Lloyd. The kid charged with those sniper killings. There's been a change of plans. I need to come in, talk to you about it. Before I do that, you need to know who I am, whether you can trust me. My lawyer's name is Davidson. He's in New York. Manhattan. And the boy's aunt, Rebecca, if you'll go by and see her…don't call her on the phone…she'll tell you too. If you can do this today, I'll come by and see you tomorrow afternoon, okay?"

"You didn't give me your lawyer's phone number."

"I figured you'd want to look it up yourself. Maybe in Martindale-Hubbell. Make some calls yourself first. Know who you're talking to.

41

"IT'S ME" I told the hum on the phone line. It didn't answer. "Tell the Prof to go and see McGowan. Get a number where I can call him tomorrow night— anytime he says. And have the Prof leave a number with you too. I need to talk to him."

The hum hung up.

42

I LOOKED AT more racetrack sites until lunchtime. Found one that looked good. Stock-car track at Illiana, right on U.S. 30. In Schererville, close enough to Virgil's house so I could be in the neighborhood.

The Lake County Public Library was on the same highway. Ultra-modern, all glass. The young black woman at the reference desk showed me where to find the back issues of the Post-Tribune on microfiche. I scrolled through. Whenever I came across a story on the sniper killings, I pushed the button for a copy. My attaché case was stuffed by the time I left.

43

THAT NIGHT, we started Lloyd's survival school.

Virgil taped the kid's hands from wrists to knuckles. Slapped a wide band across Lloyd's mouth.

"That's to teach you to breathe through your nose," I told him. "When you get scared, you breathe through your mouth— take in too much air. It helps you panic. That's not what we want, okay?"

The kid nodded, watching.

"You're going to start on this heavy bag. No jabs. That's okay for the ring, not for inside. Hooks. That's all we want. Both hands. Nothing to the head. Everything to the body. Stand close. We want a hundred punches in a row. Without stopping. You're not going to get it right away— it takes time. But a hundred punches. Real punches. That's what we're working for."

Virgil stood behind the heavy bag, steadying it with his hands. The kid walked over to it, drew a deep breath through his nose, fired a left hook, a right, another left. His arms dropped— he was out of breath.

I put my hands on the back of his shoulders. He was covered with sweat under the T-shirt. "Don't take a big breath and hold it. Nice shallow breaths. In and out. You stop breathing, you stop punching, okay?"

He nodded, weak but game.

"And stand closer, Lloyd. You'll always be fighting bigger guys. Get close so their arms reach over your shoulders." Virgil left the bag, came over to stand in front of me. He was taller. I stepped into him, face against his chest, dropping my shoulders, hooked toward his body in slow motion. Virgil's long arms reached past me, hands slapping against my back.

Lloyd nodded. Stepped into the heavy bag, firing hooks, right, left, right, over and over. This time he went a good fifteen seconds before he ran out of gas. The kid raked air into his nose, holding his stomach.

"Much better," I told him. "But stop punching with your arms. You're doing this…" I stood in front of the bag, feet planted, launched a hook as I twisted my shoulder into the punch. The bag popped. "That look pretty good to you?" I asked him.

He nodded, eyes sharp on the target.

"Looks don't get it in a fight," I told him. "That was an arm punch. Like you've been throwing. The power comes from here." Putting my thumbs on my hip bones, fingers spraying down to my upper thighs. Twisting my hips in slow motion as I got off another hook. "See? Turn your hip into the punch— what you got from the waist up isn't enough to really drive, all right? Watch…" I double-hooked the bag with my left hand, popped in a right, switched back to the left. Virgil nodded approval.

Lloyd came back to the bag, stepped in, and launched a jet-stream hook from somewhere around his ankles. Virgil pushed the bag against him as the blow landed and Lloyd hit the floor. He jumped to his feet and swung even harder. This time he stayed on his feet, but he was so off-balance he couldn't throw another punch. I went back to work.

"Plant your feet. Spread 'em apart. Yeah, that's it…a little more. Don't punch at the bag, punch through it. Yeah! Drive those shots, Lloyd! Balance, balance." I kept my hands on his hips, not letting him get too far out of alignment. "Alternate the punches. Double up on the left. Drive, damn it! Drop down with those shots— lower. There's no below-the-belt crap where you're going. Don't be admiring your work, drive!

"The kid staggered forward, face green. I ripped the tape off. Vomit rushed out. Virgil wiped him off with a damp rag. Patting him on the back. "You doin' good, Lloyd. I felt those punches, son. Hit the showers, okay?"

The mountain man looked at me. "He was throwing up inside that tape…never even thought about ripping it off himself."

"He'll get it. He's got the hate, just needs some technique."

"He's one of us," Virgil said. Pride in his voice.

44

TRAINING A FIGHTER isn't all inside the ring.

"How much time we got?" Virgil asked me.

"I'm seeing the lawyer tomorrow. Tomorrow night, I'll make a call to the city. Ask this cop I know if he'll front me some references. It all comes together, it's time for Lloyd to come in.

"We're good here till forever. Just say the word."

When Lloyd came back inside, we started on the hard part.

45

"PRISON'S NOT like jail," I told Lloyd. "Prison, there's nobody coming to the gate with bail money. You're down for a long time. You count the days. Some guys, they got too much time to count for themselves, so they look to take a piece of yours."

The kid nodded, focused like he'd never been in school.

"It's like the street, only…compressed, you got it? Everything happens close up. There's no place to go. No place to hide. So you give nothing away. Nothing. Never. Look down or look hard. Your face stays flat. You don't smile, you don't cry. And you protect your space…the space you carry around with you…the space around your body."

"Don't take nothing from nobody," Virgil put in. "Nothing good, nothing bad. Inside, it's all the same. Guy offers you a smoke— no, thanks. Guy tells you the only way to get along is get down on your knees, you don't argue with him— you got to hurt him. Before he finishes the sentence. Right then."

"The counselors…"

"Guards, son. Hacks, screws, cops…don't matter what you call them. But they ain't no counselors inside. What a counselor does, you tell him this booty bandit got your name on his list, he asks you maybe you want to talk about it. You talk about it, you end up in PC. Protective Custody. Only it ain't protected, just custody. Close custody. Like solitary."

"Okay."

My turn. "There's three ways to survive inside, Lloyd. Remember what the Prof used to say, Virgil? Cold, crazy, or connected— that's the only way to play."

"I miss that man."

"Who's the Prof?" the kid wanted to know.

"He's this little black dude," Virgil told him. "Tiny. Got the magic in him. Like some preachers got." I felt Lloyd stiffen. If Virgil noticed, he didn't show it, continuing on in the same voice. "Most of the time, he talked in rhyme." The mountain man chuckled. "Like I guess I just did. He's been jailing since they made jails. I never had much truck with black folks till I went down. Didn't hate them or anything, like some did where I'm from. Just never knew one to really talk with, understand? Anyway, the Prof, it's short for Professor. Or Prophet. He's a truth-teller. And a fearless little maniac, I'll swear that to anyone. He's the one who schooled Burke. Used to call him 'schoolboy' when Burke would act the fool."

"You?" Lloyd looked at me.

Virgil laughed. "Yeah, this hard-case was a young fool once. Had to learn. Like you learning now."

"What do I do?"

"When you get inside," I said, "look around. Pick one out. They'll all challenge you, give you those hard looks, try to back you down with their eyes. Even the weasels'll try it, not knowing you. Pick one out, like I said. Watch his eyes. You'll smell it on him. Coward. Hard in a pack, nothing by himself. Then you walk up to him, ask him if he got a problem with anything. He drops his eyes, mumbles something, you let it slide. Anything else, any fucking thing else, you move your left hand fast at the waist, then come overhand with the right. Aim it right at the side of his neck. And drive it. He goes down, don't wait for him to get up, get your foot into his ribs, quick. Don't stop until they pull you off. Don't think about it. That's what you do. What you got to do."

"What if…?"

"There's no 'if' here, kid. What if you go to solitary for a few days? What if they write something down in a report? Don't matter. When they let you back out, they'll wonder. Maybe you're crazy. That's okay. Maybe you're just a cold young man. That's okay too. And while they're thinking about it, they're gonna find out you're connected too."

"Me?"

"Yeah. When you were in, who was the barn boss?"

"Barn boss?"

"The duke. The head man. Every joint's got one, especially the kiddie camps. The baddest guy there. Come on."

"Oh, you mean…like, one of the residents."

"They got such fancy names for stuff now, don't they, brother?" Virgil's chuckle didn't reach his eyes.

"Lloyd," I said patiently, "residents, they're people who stay in hotels, okay? Now, who was the boss inside?"

"Hightower. I never knew his first name. Big black guy. One of the kids told me he was in for a homicide. In a drug deal."

"The others, they get out of his way when he walks?"

"Oh yes."

"He only hang with blacks? Is it a racial thing?"

"I don't know. I wasn't…"

"That's okay. When you go back inside, you find out. This Hightower s still in charge, he got transferred, he got himself replaced by some other boy, it doesn't matter. You just let us know."

"Okay."

46

I CHECKED MY messages before I went back to the motel. Nothing. Virgil would keep the boy up until first light, working. I closed my eyes, asking for Belle to come back to me in the only way she ever could.

After a while, I slept.

47

I GAVE MY NAME to the receptionist at Bostick's. "He's been expecting you," she said, pointing down a dark carpeted corridor.

The sign on his office said Private. I knocked. Davidson opened the door.

"Mr. Bostick?" I asked. Nothing showed in my face.

Davidson laughed, turned to a short, Roman-faced, slim man seated at a kidney-shaped white plastic desk. "Pay up," he said.

Bostick slid a hundred-dollar bill across the clean surface of the desk. Stood up, offered his hand.

I shook hands, sat down, lit a smoke. Davidson's foul cigar was burning in a deep glass ashtray.

"Bart called me. I wasn't too busy, so I thought I'd fly out, see if there was something we could put together."

I bowed my head slightly. Just enough. "Much appreciated."

"Where are we?" Bostick asked.

"Lloyd didn't do it," I told him. "We need to know how it looks for him, he comes in and surrenders. And what the Man wants with Virgil, he comes in too."

"If the kid comes in, I can work bail for him again. Take a couple-few days. The rifle they found in his room, it bounced. No connect to the murders. What they got is a kid with a porno collection, a loner who prowls around at night. Maybe a peeper," he continued, watching my face.

"I know."

"And they got a couple of kids that were out one night. Some statements our boy may have made about killing people in parked cars."

"He's a juvenile in this jurisdiction?" Davidson asked.

"Doesn't matter," Bostick replied. "Homicide's an adult offense. Here, he gets bound over for the Grand Jury no matter how old he is."

"That's good."

Bostick nodded agreement. "Yeah, a jury won't go for all this collection of crap, but a Juvenile Court judge…you know how they are."

I did. "You going to push it to trial?" I asked.

"It's still a crap-shoot. If this boy didn't do it, somebody did. Better to hold off, see if they make another arrest."

"They're looking?"

"I don't think so. Not most of them anyway. This one detective, Sherwood, he's got a lot on the ball. I think he knows Lloyd isn't the one. But the cops…they want to close cases, not solve them."

"Virgil?"

Bostick smiled. "We've been talking that one over. The way I see it, Virgil was out looking for Lloyd. The poor kid got scared and ran off. Virgil found him, brought him in. He should get a medal, right? I don't think they'll hold him."

"Good. You know this Detective Sherwood?"

"A bit," he said cautiously.

"Enough so you could get me a talk with him?"

"Maybe."

I dragged on my smoke. "I don't want to buy him. I want to give him whoever did this."

"You?"

"Didn't Davidson tell you? Nobody knows these freaks better than me."

"We discussed your credentials."

"I got other references."

"I'm sure you do. But…"

"The human who did this, he's not some lonely, scared kid who likes to look at pictures. The guy you want, he's a sex-sniper."

"A what?"

"Sex-sniper. A guy who gets sexual satisfaction from penetrating his victims at a distance. The rifle's his cock. The bullets are his sperm. Bang bang, you're fucked."

"How d'you…?"

"Berkowitz…Son of Sam, remember? Apparently motiveless shootings. Girls alone. Or a guy and a girl together. That Zodiac freak on the Coast. That maniac in Buffalo. They're out there, and they play to a pattern."

"I never…"

"There was a case a lot like this one a few years back, somewhere in upstate New York."

"Is this kind of research a hobby of yours?"

"It's my work. And how I stayed alive this long."

Davidson nodded agreement, watching the Indiana lawyer. "Burke knows freaks like nobody else, Bart. In New York, even the cops admit that."

"You could find him?"

"I think so. Maybe. I know where to look."

"Where?"

"Where you can't look. That's why I may want to buy some slack from this detective, if he'll play."

"I'll ask him."

I got up to leave. "Okay. Virgil and Lloyd, they'll be ready to come in soon, maybe a few more days. I'll get word to you in front, you'll handle the surrender?"

"Sure. The bail…"

I opened my attaché case. "There's twenty-five K in here. Take what's left over as a front on your fee."

"You want a receipt?"

"I got one," I told him. Shook hands with Davidson and walked out.

48

MCGOWAN ANSWERED the phone on the first ring.

"It's me," told him. "I'm in Indiana, just outside Gary. Working on a case. A sex-sniper, real ugly freak. My brother's cousin is a suspect. I'm looking for the real hitter. There's a detective out here, name of Sherwood. If I give him your name and number, will you go for me?"

"What's that mean?"

"Tell him what I am. What I'm not."

"Okay, pal. He might not like what he hears."

"I'll chance it. Out here, I'm Mitchell Sloane, okay?"

McGowan's honey-Irish voice came through the line. "Tell him to call. I'm not in, I'll get back to him."

"Thanks."

He hung up.

49

DRIVING OVER to the hideout that night, little tongues of flame licked at my insides. Not my old friend. Not fear. Not yet. I knew why I came to Indiana. Did what I came for. What my brother asked. I knew the Sociopath's Song by heart. Travel light and you travel fast.

But you got nothing when you get there.

I knew the man who was out there. Out there in the dark, shadow-stalking, licking his lips, directing his porno movies through a telescopic sight. Making them into snuff films.

I didn't owe it to anyone to hang around, see this thing through.

And if I owed it to myself, I didn't want to know why.

50

THE SPORTING-GOODS store had a good supply of boxing equipment. I ignored the rifles stacked against the far wall, concentrating on what I needed for now.

When I got inside the hideout, I dumped the duffel bag out on the floor. Told Virgil we'd all be going in soon.

He nodded, looking at the boxing gloves lying on the cement. "He's been beating the hell out of that heavy bag. We gotta know the rest."

The rest. Punching bags don't punch back. If Lloyd was going to quit, we needed to know. Now.

"Let's do it," I said.

I waved Lloyd over. "We're going to spar some now, kid. See how those hooks of yours work when someone's trying to block them, okay?"

Lloyd held out his hands for the gloves, head down. Hesitant.

"What's wrong, boy?" Virgil's voice was quiet, steady.

"What if I hurt Burke?"

Virgil's laugh had relief in it. "Hell, son, you couldn't…"

I stepped on his words. "You won't be able to hurt me, Lloyd. It looks like I'm in trouble, Virgil'll pull you off quick enough."

He nodded. I wrapped the Ace bandage over one hand. Held out the other for Virgil. "Not too tight," I told him.

The top of the kid's head came about to my chin. I banged the gloves together, rolled my shoulders, rotated my neck on its column, getting ready.

Lloyd was still watching me closely when I shot a sharp jab into his chest. He grunted, backed up, and I slid my left foot forward, hooked to his gut, chopped him down with a short right to the jaw.

The kid hit the ground, came up swinging, trying to get his face buried in my chest. I caught a double left hook on my right forearm, fired a return shot under his heart as he dropped his arm. He went down again.

He came up slower this time, face flushed. I flicked a jab in his face. It bounced off his cheek as he came forward, head lowered, butting at my chin. He dropped his left shoulder but fired with his right, catching me right at the belt line. I grabbed the back of his neck with my right glove, pulled his face into my left fist. Something squished. He hit me a half dozen hammer shots to the ribs, pushing forward, shoulders working.

Virgil pulled him off. The kid's face was bleeding, blood bubbling around his nose as he sucked in air. I sat down on the floor. Virgil raised Lloyd's hand in the air, his hard-coal voice a parody of a ring announcer. "Referee stops contest at two minutes and fifteen seconds of the first round. The fighter from New York's unable to continue. A TKO for the man from Kentucky. Llllloyd!"

51

LATER THAT NIGHT, we told Lloyd about the joint. "You remember the guy we called Astro?" I asked Virgil. I felt a laugh bubble in my chest, thinking back. "That fat dude with the long hair in on a transfer from another federale joint?"

"I guess. Never spoke to him much."

"Yeah. Well, anyway, this guy Astro…he used to live in this giant hippie commune. All they did was harvest grass, drop acid, play music, and ball. Sounded good, hear him tell it. One day one of the other hippies, Jonah, he drops about a quart of LSD. Goes right to the moon. Sits there staring into space, not talking, not eating. Out of it. And he stays like that for days, okay? So they have a meeting, all the hippies. What they decide to do is send someone to visit this guy Jonah, find out how he's doing. This one chump gets elected. Astro says the chump takes exactly the same dose as this guy Jonah, and he goes into the same exact trance. Now the fucking hippies got two guys who need a CAT scan. So, naturally, they call another meeting. Meanwhile, the second guy, he comes out of the nod and walks into the tent. They all crowd around him. Ask him if he got to see Jonah. So this other hippie, he tells them: Hey, I saw Jonah. He's cool right where he is. Says to leave him alone, stop bothering him."

Virgil chuckled, remembering. "Whatever happened to Astro?"

"You got me, brother. He made parole and that was it. He went back to his life. But, whatever, he found his way to do the time, right? On another planet."

Virgil gave the kid a beer. Took one himself.

"This guy we're looking for…he's a monster, right? Like the Prof told us that one time. Remember, brother, when we were all locked down after that rumble on the yard?"

He turned to Lloyd. "We didn't have no TV in the hole. No radios, no books, nothing. So every night, the Prophet, he'd tell us stories. One night it'd be about women. He'd tell you about watching a stripper and I swear to God you could see the girl working, right on your cell wall. Or he'd tell us about some hustle he pulled off. Or about old-time guys, real cons, back when a good thief was something to be proud of. One night, he told us about the legend. That was the first time I knew what a monster was."

I closed my eyes, remembering, hearing the Prof's voice.

Myths and monsters.

52

VIRGIL'S VOICE interrupted the memories, like he was plugged into my thoughts. "Yeah, what a man he was. Sure helped me become one."

The kid's voice was tight with wonder. "How do you get that?"

"What you mean, Lloyd?"

"I mean…what makes a man? A real man." Questions only a kid can ask from his heart. Like knowing is all there is to it. I was thinking about how to tell the kid about Michelle, when Virgil met it straight on. "Same thing that makes a real woman, son. After the storm, all you got is the foundation."

53

SOME OF THE bounce was missing from Cyndi as she came up to take my order.

"You have a pay phone somewhere around?" I asked her.

"Maybe you need somebody to show you a phone, huh?"

I took a drag of my cigarette, waiting.

She put her palms on the table, leaned forward. "You never called me."

"No. I'm going to be pulling out soon. Finish my work. You're a fine woman, Cyndi. Not the kind a man plays with. I'm not your ticket out of here. No point throwing beautiful flower seeds on concrete."

"I never asked you for promises."

"You don't have to ask. I respect you too much not to be asking myself."

She slid into the seat across from me. "That's a sweet goodbye."

"It's not goodbye, girl. It's just…a girlfriend's not what I need right now. And I'm sure not what you need anyway. There's something out there for you a lot better than whatever I am, okay?"

"You think I'll get out?"

"I know you will."

"That's what Blossom says. You know what that old girl told me the other day? She said I was smart enough, I should go to college."

"You think that's nuts?"

"I did at first. But, I don't know. I had a boyfriend once. A guy I met at the club. He was an accountant. Told me I had a real head for numbers. And he wasn't playing…I know when a man's playing."

"Then you know I'm not, right?"

Her smile flashed. "Right."

"Friends?"

She slid out of the booth, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, wiggled off to give Leon the order.

Blossom walked by. Nodded gravely at me. Like I'd done the right thing. I watched the set of her shoulders, the line of her jaw. Knowing I'd seen it before, somewhere.

54

WE BROUGHT Lloyd in that Monday. Bostick met us at the police station. Introduced me as a private investigator from his office. Mitchell Sloane is a versatile man.

They charged Lloyd with bail jumping. Remanded him, set a hearing down for Wednesday.

Sherwood was there. Big man, round face, mostly skull on top. Ham hands, sausage fingers. Khaki suit, clip-on tie, walking shoes. Dumb the way a bear is slow— he wouldn't turn up the flame unless he had something to burn.

Sherwood gravely thanked Virgil for finding Lloyd. Said he did the right thing, his voice neutral, not empty. Pick what you want.

Virgil shook his hand, nodded. Watchful.

We stepped onto the sidewalk. I pulled Bostick aside. "You get what I wanted?" I asked him.

"Hightower. Jefferson James Hightower. Seventeen years old. Honcho'ed a crack posse in Gary. Allegedly shot a chulo from one of the Chicago Latin gangs when they tried to move on his territory. Doing real well for himself, moving up in the organization. Registry shows him owning a Nissan Maxima and a Kawasaki Ninja cycle. Only family is his mother. She lives over in the Delaney Street Projects. Visits him about three times a week."

"Thanks."

"See you in court."

55

VIRGIL DROVE THE Lincoln through the streets parallel to Broadway. He crossed the avenue, approaching from the Garyside. I gave him a look. "Downwind," is all he said.

Big sign dominated the wide street: MONEY TO LOAN � NEED JACK? SEE JACK! The pawnshop was half a city block. I wondered if they sold guns, make it a one-stop shop.

The neighborhood was full of hand-painted signs for locksmiths, bottle clubs, custom car washing— no machines. Black men on the corners, watching like they watch in every city.

The Projects were a series of brick attached one-story homes. We found the number two blocks in from Harrison Street— the Maxima was parked out front.

I left Virgil in the car. Knocked on the door. A solidly built black woman answered.

"Yes, sir?" Eyes wary.

"Mrs. Hightower, my name is Sloane. I'm a private investigator. I work for Mr. Bart Bostick, the criminal defense lawyer…"

She nodded, waiting.

"I'm investigating a case. You know those sniper killings? Those teenagers who got killed over by the dunes, in that lovers' lane?"

"I don't know nothin' about…"

"Oh, I know you don't, ma'am. But I was hoping your son…James…hoping he might be of some help."

"How?"

"Well, we heard a rumor that the boy who did it might be locked up in the same jail as James. And a boy like that, you know he can't be right in the head. So I thought, James, he might have heard something…"

"He never said nothin' to me."

"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't, ma'am. I'll be going down to the jail to talk with him and I just wanted to show the proper respect…speak to his mother first. See, you need to sign this Consent Form for me to get in"— taking what Bostick had given me out of my attaché case— "your son being a minor and all. It just says I'm working on his case. And I wanted to leave this with you"— holding up a thick white envelope where she could see it— "as a token of our respect."

She felt the outside of the envelope. Took the pen I gave her and signed the form.

"Please tell James I'll be by to see him," I said. Leaving the envelope in her hands.

People watched from their front stoops. Looked away when I watched them.

56

THE NEXT MORNING, I took Maintop Ninety-third, pulled in at the Lake County Juvenile Detention Center. Solid brick, cop cars parked in front. Parking lot half full. High chain link fence around the grounds, loops of razor wire across the top. They all look the same.

I showed the Consent Form to the woman on duty behind a glass wall. She asked for some ID, picked up the phone.

I read the signs while I was waiting. Visiting Hours. Rules and Regulations.

A slim, handsome black man came through a side door.

"Mr. Sloane?"

"Yes."

"You're here to see Hightower, I understand. We're full up here, so we don't have a visiting room. We usually use the cafeteria, but the boys are eating now. Visiting hours aren't until ten. But we always try to accommodate attorneys here. You're working for Mr. Bostick?"

"That's right."

"Didn't know he was handling Hightower's case. I'll have to make a couple of phone calls. Be with you in just a minute."

He left me sitting there. A careful man.

Not ten minutes later, he was back. "I'll let you use my office. You'll have complete privacy. Just open the door when you're done, give a call down the corridor."

"Thank you."

A guard brought Hightower in. I stood up, shook hands with him. He went along like he knew the play, took a seat. The guard left.

His head was elongated, forceps marks visible just past his temples, framing small eyes with a yellowish cast. They were bright and flat, like a lizard's. "Who you?"

"My name is Sloane."

"What you want?"

"I want to do something for you, Mr. Hightower. I heard you were a man who knew how to act."

"What's that mean?"

I leaned forward, lighting a smoke, leaving the pack on the desk between us. "You know how the new kids come in this joint. Scared and all? You being the top man, I guess you get to make your pick."

"Maybe."

"Now, some of these kids, you pick them to be your running buddies. And some you pick to play with, right? The weak ones."

"I ain't into that shit, man."

"Of course you're not. Anyone can see you don't play that way. But there's guys in here that do. And they don't do nothing without an okay from the Man, right?"

A quick smile. "Right."

"I wouldn't want you to make a mistake, Mr. Hightower. A man has to know who his friends are, right? Now, I'm a private investigator. And I'm looking for somebody."

"Who?"

"I'm looking for the freak who sniper-snuffed those kids in lovers' lane."

"So why you here?"

"Because he may be in here too. Maybe he's here for something else. And maybe he's got a big mouth, see?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I see."

"So you hear something, you let me know. And it's worth some cash."

"How much cash?"

"Ten large."

"I make that in a week on the street, man."

"You not on the street, pal. You're in the jailhouse. Way I hear it, you're going to be here for quite some time. I know how things work in here. You don't want the money, say so. But let me tell you something else too. Remember what I told you about knowing who your friends are? I'm your friend. A good friend. That's what I told your mother."

"My mother? Man, if you…"

"I paid her a visit. A nice, respectful visit. And I left her five hundred bucks for you. A token of my respect. Because I'm your friend."

He lit one of my cigarettes, cold as a seventeen-year-old life-taker, but not cool. Letting it show. I went on in the same quiet, soft tone, eyes on his.

"I got another friend in here, Mr. Hightower. His name is Lloyd. He was here before. Just came in again yesterday. They won't let him into population until tomorrow. White kid, about your height, a little bit shorter. Slim build, black hair."

"I know him."

"Yeah. Any friend of mine is a friend of yours, understand? I never let anything happen to my friends. I know what to do if something does."

"You want me to look out for this white boy?" he sneered.

I leaned forward, close to his face. Dropped my voice to a whisper. "I want you to look out for your self, okay? I went to see your mother— left her some cash. Anything happens to my friend, I figure maybe I made a mistake about you. Maybe you're not my friend like I thought. That happens, I'll go see your mother again."

His eyes were unvarnished hate. I held them. Let him see the truth. Right down to the deep spot where the blood-spill starts.

57

BOSTICK WAS RELAXED in the courtroom. Wearing one of those slouchy Italian suits over highly polished black boots. Not lazy, staying within himself. Like a good host at a party. Virgil and Rebecca were in the front row, dressed in their church clothes. I sat next to Bostick at the counsel table.

The judge was a youngish man, light brown hair carefully combed to one side, face already starting to pudge from the rewards of honest living. The ADA was the kind of guy who spends his life going through the motions and never gets good at it. The kind of guy who screws something up so many times they call him experienced.

The kind of fight you don't waste your time fixing.

A reporter from the Post-Tribune flipped open his pad. I caught his eye. Whoever he was, he wasn't there to go through the motions.

"Your Honor," Bostick began, voice low and controlled. Hounds in check. "The purpose of bail is to ensure the defendant's presence at trial. The so-called evidence against my client does not aggregate to the weight of good gossip. The court knows full well that the totality of the prosecutor's case would not survive a probable-cause hearing. The crimes…they are horrible. Shocking to the conscience of the community. And the perpetrator surely deserves our worst condemnation. But, Your Honor, I respectfully suggest that the people of our community are ill served by illusion. The killer is not in this courtroom! As long as the press treats this case as solved, our people will sleep peacefully. But it will be the peaceful sleep of sheep who do not sense the presence of the wolf. Leads will dry up. People will not come forward and communicate with the police. If the court keeps Lloyd in jail, that time will be forever lost to him. When the killer is apprehended, all this court will be able to offer this boy is an apology. That is not the way we treat our citizens, Judge. We have been ready for the probable-cause hearing for weeks. Indeed, we are ready right at this moment. But the prosecutor's office has made no such attempt. If the police are satisfied with their investigation, let's have a trial. Let's have a trial, so my client can go home, to be with his family."

The ADA got to his feet, already exhausted. "Your Honor, the defendant was on bail. He jumped bail, disappeared. How can we be sure he'll show up when his trial starts?"

"He didn't jump bail," Bostick said in a mild voice. "The prosecutor knows better than that, Judge. The boy panicked. He was scared. But he never left town. All that really happened was he didn't show for an appointment with his probation officer. That was wrong, and Lloyd knows it was wrong. But remember, Your Honor, the boy's family put up his bail. And it was the boy's family who found him. And brought him right back to the police station. The only reason Lloyd is in custody right this minute is because he surrendered himself."

The judge looked a question down from the bench. The prosecutor nodded. "I'm going to continue bail in the same amount, the judge said. "Mr. Bostick, your client understands that failure to keep one single appointment, failure to show for a single court appearance, and he's back inside. On remand, is that clear? No bail."

"Understood, Your Honor."

"Defendant is discharged. Same conditions of bail. Next case, please."

The prosecutor was busy with some papers on his desk. Bostick went over to the clerk to sign Lloyd out as the kid went to stand with his family. The reporter walked by the defense table, gave me an interested glance, shrugged his shoulders when I didn't react, and went to file his story.

We came down the courthouse steps in two groups. Rebecca between Virgil and Lloyd, me next to Bostick. Detective Sherwood was leaning against the wall. He rolled his thick shoulders to push himself toward us. Virgil caught the movement, kept walking toward the car. Sherwood stepped in front of us.

"Mr. Bostick, I'd like to talk to your…investigator. That okay with you?"

Bostick turned to me. "Sure," I said.

"Drop down to the precinct anytime," Sherwood said.

"Would you do me a favor first?"

"What?"

"A friend of mine, Detective McGowan. NYPD, Runaway Squad. I'll give you the number. Could you give him a call, kind of tell him what's going on out here?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Save you some time, okay? You want to talk to me, you want to know who you're talking to."

His eyes measured me. "Give me the number," he said.

58

I STAYED AT Virgil's house only long enough for Lloyd to tell us he never got to use any of the stuff we taught him. He was sitting at the kitchen table, facing me and Virgil while Rebecca bustled around in the kitchen. Virginia and Junior were all over Lloyd, glad to see him— afraid he was going to go away again. Rebecca took them into the back yard to play.

"You remember that guy I told you about? Hightower? Well, as soon as I got out of that first-day isolation room they put you in, I went into the main room. Where the TV is. I was watching, like you told me. Watching their eyes. I was ready. This one black kid, I had him all picked out. Then Hightower walks in, comes right up to me. I was thinking, damn!

I didn't want to start off with this boy, you know? But he comes over to me, says, 'Homeboy! When d'you raise, man?' Like we were pals forever. He sits next to me, runs down the whole place. Like which counselor…I mean, which guard you can get over on. The other guys, they see this, they don't know if Hightower's staking me out for himself or what. He puts his pack of smokes on the bench between us. I remembered what you said about not taking nothing. He leans over, whispers to me, says we got the same friends, don't worry. He had a visit. He described you, Burke. I mean, perfect. Like he knew you."

I nodded. Hightower knew me. Better than Lloyd did.

"Anyway, later, at lunch, this other boy, big white kid, one of those skinheads, he reaches over, takes the cake right off my tray. I start across the table at him when I hear Hightower whisper, 'Chill, Lloyd. The Man!' and I see one of the guards coming down the aisle. The white boy smiles at me. Then Hightower tells him he wants to settle this later, come to the shower room after gym. Bring his shit. The white boy says this ain't Hightower's beef. Hightower says anyone messes with me, they got him to deal with. I reach over, take my cake back off the white boy's tray. Then I help myself to his piece too. Nobody says nothing. I did it right, Virgil?"

Virgil's smile was sad. "Like you been doin' it all your life, son."

The kids came back inside. Virginia sat down at the piano. Started pounding out the jangle-line of some country-blues song. Like her father. Junior sat next to his sister, his little hand on her shoulder. Rebecca watched over them. Virgil opened a beer for Lloyd. The kid left it untouched in front of him, knowing it was Virgil's way of telling his family Lloyd was a man now. Sacramental wine, not for drinking.

I knew it was time for me to go.

59

IT WAS LATE afternoon when I got back to the motel. Night work coming up— I lay down to rest. Slapped a cassette into the tape player Virgil left me. "Got some of your girl on this, brother," he told me.

Judy Henske's voice charged out of the speakers, dominating the dingy room the way she overworked every club she'd ever played. Her early stuff. "Wade in the Water." Making the gospel song into a blue-tinted challenge. When they say a prizefighter hits and holds, they're talking about a dirty tactic. Like we taught Lloyd. Henske, she hits and holds those notes until they turn into beauty past what you can see with your eyes. What you feel. What she makes you feel. A channel to the root.

There was more on the tape. Bonnie Raitt. Henske's spiritual sister, like Henske was Billie Holiday's. "Give It Up." Working that slide guitar like the critics said a woman never could.

When Raitt got to singing "Guilty," I felt Belle's loss so hard I couldn't get a clean breath. I'd paid off her debts, but it didn't set me free. My soul jumped the tracks and it took a monster and a witch to save me.

It wasn't just a sex-sniper I was looking for in Indiana.

60

I DRIFTED IN and out of sleep. Dreamed I was back in prison. The Olympics were on the TV in the rec room. 1972. The cons watched Olga Korbut twist herself into positions the Kama Sutra never imagined. Talking about what they'd do to her if they had her for a night. The little Russian girl was winning hearts all over the world, dancing and prancing, wiggling her teenage butt, waggling her fingers in special waves, smiling like she'd discovered purity.

The senior member of the Russian gymnastics team was a dark-haired beauty who'd been the leader for years— until right then, when Olga burst out. Lyudmila Turischeva. A proud woman, she knew it was time— time for the cubs to challenge the pack leader. When she walked out onto the mat, her shoulders were squared, chin up, eyes straight ahead. Arms moving at her sides like a soldier's. She knew she was up against it— the crowd was Olga's.

The other cons watched her hips, disappointed. I watched her eyes. She did her exercise perfectly. No flash, the fire banked. Then she turned and walked off, head high, going out with class.

A woman, not a girl.

I woke up knowing what I'd recognized in Blossom as she walked by.

61

I DIDN'T NEED the real estate cover anymore, but I dropped by Humboldt's office just to keep the extra cards in my hand. He was out "viewing some properties." I left word that I was still around, still looking into our project.

Used the car phone to call Sherwood. Held on while they looked for him.

"This is Sloane. Did you speak to my friend?"

"Yes. Last night."

"Now a good time to come and see you?"

"A very good time."

"Okay. I'll pull up outside the station in about fifteen minutes. We'll go for a ride and talk, okay? I'm driving a…"

"I know your car. I'll be out front."

He hadn't seemed surprised I didn't want to sit around a police station— I guess he had talked to McGowan.

62

SHERWOOD CLIMBED in the front seat, adjusting his bulk comfortably. "You show them a credit card, they'll rent you anything these days, huh?" Letting me know.

"Anyplace special you want me to drive?"

"You want to see where it happened? That last one?"

"Yeah."

"Take the left at the corner."

I followed the cop's directions until we came to a sign that said Naval Reserve Center. A couple of more blocks to the beach. A black man came over to my window, wearing a guayabera shirt, metal change-maker at his waist. "Two bucks for nonresidents," he said.

"Rest it, Rufus," Sherwood rumbled.

The change-maker looked across me to Sherwood, turned away without a word.

I pulled into the parking lot. Lake Michigan spread out before us. Only a few people on the beach, half a dozen cars in the lot.

I killed the engine, flicked the power window switch, lit a smoke. Waited.

"This is it" he said. "Victims were parked just about there"— pointing at the corner of the lot closest to the dunes. "We figure he took a position somewhere up around there"— pointing again. "No use trying that trajectory stuff— too many bullets."

"Kids still park here at night?"

"Yeah, they do. But over on the other side. Where there's no cover."

"Wouldn't need much at nighttime."

"No," he agreed, sadly.

I scanned the scene. A thousand places to shoot from, stationary, unsuspecting targets who couldn't shoot back, the cover of night. Surprise. A human-hunter's paradise.

"McGowan, that's your friend?" Sherwood asked.

"My friend. Not my brother, not my partner, okay? We've done some things together over the years."

"Want to know what he said about you?"

"Up to you."

"He said you got felony arrests for everything from hijacking to attempted murder."

"Not everything."

"Okay, he was clear about that. No rapes, no sex cases."

"No narcotics, no kids."

"Right."

"So now you know."

"He said you may have been a firearms dealer at one time. There's an FBI file on you for that. You took a federal fall for interstate transport, but it was only a couple of handguns. That's where you met your man Virgil, right?"

I nodded. That was back when the state joints were using the federales as a dumping ground, transferring cons all over the country. Bus therapy, they called it. They moved the Prof for preaching— race war is more to prison authorities' taste than brotherhood. I never did find out why Virgil came down as well.

"And a CIA file too— still open. Suspected mercenary."

"I was in Biafra," I said, watching him closely, "not Rhodesia."

"He told me. Said you cleaned up a real mess for them a while back."

I dragged on my smoke.

"He said you make a living working the edge of the line. Finding missing kids, stinging kiddie-porn dealers, roughing off pimps."

"Any of those on your protected list?"

"No."

"So?"

"So you're a criminal. Not just an ex-con like your pal Virgil. A working criminal."

"McGowan tell you I know anything about freaks?"

"He said you know more than anyone he's ever met."

"You think Lloyd did the snipings?"

"Do you?"

"I know he didn't."

"Which means…?"

"Which means someone else did."

"Maybe."

"You got 'Exceptional Clearance' in this state?" I asked, challenging him. Sometimes the cops arrest a guy who didn't do the crime and mark it closed. Sometimes they know who did it but they can't make an arrest. Then they call it "Exceptional Clearance." The same tag they use when a baby-raper turns out to hold some political markers.

I flashed back on standing next to an old black woman in a cemetery. Watched as they put the little casket in the ground. Her grandson. Tortured to death. Scanning the crowd. Hoping the freak would want one last look at his work. The kid's mother was in jail. Crack. The old woman was bent over slightly at the waist from a hundred years of cleaning other people's houses. Her eyes were clear and hard. She'd offered me the money she'd put aside for the boy's college fund to find the killer. "The money was for Alexander, and the Lord knows he doesn't need it now."

Dirt rattled on the coffin. Her hand tightened on mine, holding herself rigid. "If God was going to make life so filthy, seems like he didn't have to make us dirty when we die."

My file was open.

Sherwood met my eyes. "Not for homicides. Not on my beat. I asked around, got the word about you. Do the same before you make your charges."

"I got it. I figured you hadn't closed the books on this one…that you're still looking. That's true, I want you to know I'm looking too. I don't want to step on your trail, give you the wrong idea."

"McGowan told me, some of the people you look for, they might not get found."

I tossed my cigarette out the window.

"Not around here," he said. Making it clear.

I nodded. "Will you show me what you got?" I asked him.

"The forensics?"

"Everything."

"Why not? It's not much."

"You got a profile?"

"Profile? One of those FBI things? Tell me the killer probably had an unhappy childhood or something? No, thanks."

"I got one."

"Where?"

"In here." I tapped the side of my head. "You've got this guy pegged as a loner, right?"

He nodded.

"He's alone inside himself. Where only freaks like him can go. But he may reach out, understand? Find people he can relate to."

"Like who?"

"Gun freaks. Survivalists. Like that. You got Nazis around here?"

"Like in the Klan?"

"Yeah."

"Sure."

"There'll be a connection. These freaks, they're all quasi-cops in their heads. Like to play soldier. Wear the clothes. Handle the toys."

"Quasi-cops?"

"You got cop buffs here, right? Got police scanners in the houses, join the auxiliary force, work as security guards…you know?"

"Yeah. We always look through that file when we got filth— a hooker killing. Or a kid raped."

"If this freak's looking for a group, that's where he'll look."

"Okay."

"You got a friend in the postal service?"

"What if I did?"

"Then I'd write out this list of magazines. And you'd ask your friend who gets them delivered."

He gazed out his window for a minute. Down into the ravine where they found the bodies. "Write out the list," he said.

It only took me a minute. Then I started the engine, backed out.

As we drove along Lake Street, Sherwood turned to me. "You carrying?"

"No."

I pulled over outside the precinct house at Broadway and Thirteenth to let him out. The big man nodded like he'd made up his mind about something. "Burke, that's your name, right? Burke, you're not the only one looking for this guy."

"I know."

"I don't mean me. Someone else came around, asking questions. Spoke to me."

"Who?"

"We're not there yet, you and me."

He closed the door with a snap of his wrist as he exited the car.

63

THE NEXT MORNING, I picked up Virgil and Lloyd. Dropped Virgil off at the plant, said we'd pick him up at lunchtime.

Lloyd and I drove around for a few hours. I had him show me the high school, the woods, the dunes, lovers' lane. Questioned him about every kid he knew, trying to listen with his mind. Straining to hear the music, pick out the false notes.

If Lloyd had run across the sniper, he hadn't seen the shadow.

64

I PULLED THE LINCOLN into the diner parking lot. Walked in, Virgil and Lloyd close behind me. Virgil was back to himself, the worry-lines off his eyes. Like he was in the joint— not asking questions, waiting and ready. Virgil slid in first, right across from me, leaving Lloyd on the corner.

Cyndi flounced up to the booth. "Hi, Mitch! These your friends?"

"My brother Virgil, and his nephew Lloyd."

"Pleased to meet you. Mitch, if Virgil is your brother…and Lloyd is his nephew, what's that make him to you?"

"Close enough," I said. Virgil laughed.

I had tuna. Virgil had burgers, fries, and a beer. Lloyd ordered exactly what Virgil did.

The jukebox came on. Jim Reeves. "He'll Have to Go."

A voice from a booth behind us. "Hey, get your ass over here! We ain't got all day."

Blossom walked past us, order pad in her hand. I turned. Her booth was full of greasy humans in biker-drag. Big fat slob on the end, wearing a denim jacket with the sleeves cut out over a T-shirt. Weaselly little guy in the middle. Two drones on the end.

I couldn't hear what they said. Blossom came past us again, two bright red dots on her cheeks.

Bonnie Tyler on the juke. "It's a Heartbreak."

Cyndi came back with the food. Leaned over. "See those slobs in the back booth? I told Blossom to watch out for them. Offered to take the table for her. Those boys are trouble."

Virgil peered over. "They don't look like trouble to me," he said.

Blossom came by, a tray in each hand.

I chewed the tuna slowly, thinking about my target.

A crash from the booth behind us. "Get your hands off me!" Blossom. I turned. The fat one had his hand under Blossom's skirt, laughing as she pounded at his face, warding her off easily with one hand.

Lloyd was out of the booth like he'd kicked in an afterburner. "Let her go!" Voice cracking and squeaky. Fatso flung Blossom aside with one hand, stood up just as Lloyd charged into him, face against the bigger man's chest, hands pumping like pistons on nitromethane. I whirled out of the booth, feeling Virgil on my back.

The fat man backed up under Lloyd's attack, grunting at the body-shots. The kid was holding his own until the fat man grabbed the boy's ears, butted him sharply in the face. Lloyd fell back, blood spurting. I grabbed a table with both hands, spun on my right foot, tilted my body parallel to the floor and shot my left boot into Fatso's ribs. He doubled over as I knife-edged my hand and chopped into his neck. Lloyd piled on, pounding with both hands.

The two guys on the other end started out of the booth just as Virgil slapped the nearest one with an open palm. It sounded like a rifle shot. Virgil flicked his hand. Bloody glass from the ashtray fell out.

The weasel-face in the middle got to his feet, back arched against the wall. His hand went to his pocket. Click of a switchblade. Smile twisting on his face. "Maybe you like to play with knives," he snarled, crouching and coming forward.

I backed off, giving him room, shrugging out of my jacket to wrap it around my hand.

"Try playing with this, boy!" Blossom's voice. A meat cleaver in her hand, face darkened with blood. Trying to push her way past me to get to the knife-man.

"That's all! Back up!" Leon. A double-barreled twelve-gauge in his hand.

The fat man got to his feet, breathing hard, one hand on his neck. "This ain't your beef, man," he said to Leon.

Leon held the shotgun steady. Said the most damning words in our language. "You ain't from around here. Get out. And don't come back."

They filed past us. Muttering threats they'd never make good on.

You ain't from around here. I'd heard that all my life. It was the first time I'd heard them shot at someone else.

We sat back down. Blossom and Cyndi cleaned up the mess. Leon sat by his cash register, watching. Cyndi switched over to him, gave him a big kiss. "You're a hero, Leon!" He turned red. Kept his eyes front.

Blossom brought some ice wrapped in a dish towel, held it against Lloyd's face. "You're quite a man," she said, her voice husky. The kid's chest swelled. She bent forward, kissed his forehead. Said "Thank you" in that same voice. And walked away.

Virgil looked over at Lloyd, chuckled, "Son, don't even be thinking about it."

"What?"

"One time, I was about your age, I saw this girl get slapped by her boyfriend on the street. I went over, told him to cut it out. We fought. He damn near beat me to death before they broke it up. Then one of my kin broke him up. Well, that girl gave me a kiss like you just got and I spent the rest of that summer looking for girls to rescue. There's easier ways, son."

He looked over at me. "But the boy sure as hell can hit, can't he, brother? Wasn't for that head butt, I figure Lloyd would've whipped him straight up."

"No question about it."

Jack Scott on the jukebox. "My True Love."

Blossom came back with a little penlight. Tenderly lifted the dish towel from Lloyd's face. He didn't make a sound. She could have done brain surgery on the kid without anesthetic.

She shined the light into his eyes, asked him some questions. Checking for a concussion. She hadn't been a waitress all her life. "You're going to need a few stitches," she said.

"It's okay."

"You get the stitches now. When the girls ask you where you got the scar, you tell them come around here and ask for Blossom. I'll tell them what a man you are."

The kid's face was a neon rainbow.

65

I SPENT THE next day in the library. Closing off the corners. Looking.

On the way back to the motel, the car phone purred. Sherwood.

I left his office with a thick manila envelope.

When I spread the papers out on the motel bed, I found a list of twenty-nine names. Red check-marks next to five of them. Photocopies of rap sheets, FBI investigative reports, reports from local detectives. The five were all members of something called the Sons of Liberty. Three were suspects in vandalizing a synagogue, never formally charged. All on the subscription list for racial hate sheets, mercenary magazines. And mail-order video-porn.

If the sniper wanted to join a club, he'd have to crawl under the right rock.

66

THE CAR PHONE went off the next morning. My pal the real estate broker? I picked it up.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Sloane?"

"Yes."

"This is Blossom. At the diner?"

"I'm here." Nothing in my voice. In my mind: how did she get the number?

"I need to talk with you. Can you come by this afternoon? After closing? I get off at four."

Not at six, like Cyndi? "Okay," is all I said.

"Come around to the back. You…"

"I know where it is."

67

I HAD THE WHOLE rest of the day to think about it. Eight hours.

A day to a citizen, a lifetime to a convict. I was born sad— I don't remember another time. Sadness was never my friend, never coming into me like those electric fear-jolts when I needed them. It was just always there. Ground-fog on my spirit. I'd go deep into myself, the only safe place I knew in the places where I grew up. Dropping so far down nobody could see me. But the sadness would float on gray tendrils too soft to tear, finding its way between the cracks. I'd feel its misty wet weight settle on me. I could never chase it, so I lived in it. Surviving.

There was something fine about being where I was. Not in Indiana. With my brother. In a place where I wasn't a stranger, an outsider. New York was a rancid underbelly turned on its back— the maggots at home, not running from a sun that would never shine. A city of ambulatory psychopaths, choking on ethno-insanity. Unsafe even for predators.

A city that taught me whatever ugliness prison left out.

You want to make obscene calls, you go where the phone book's the thickest.

68

SHE WAS STANDING just to the side of the back entrance when I pulled up to the diner. Wearing her white uniform, a canvas sack that looked like a horse's feedbag slung over one shoulder by a thick strap. I wheeled the car around so the passenger door was parallel to the steps. She climbed in without a word. Reached up and snapped her seat belt into place. Tilted her chin toward the highway. I pulled out into the light afternoon traffic.

"You know how to get to Hammond?"

She didn't seem surprised when I turned left at the first light. I let the Lincoln find its rhythm inside the knots of cars, not pushing her. A pickup truck rolled past on our left, two high school girls in the back in shorts and T-shirts, their legs draped over the side, giggling girls' secrets.

Blossom sat straight-backed in her seat, knees together primly under the white skirt. A faint trace of lilac perfume mingled with cooking smells.

"You mind if we wait until we get to my house?"

"It's your play."

She nodded, calm inside herself. Her face straight ahead, eyes sweeping the interior of the Lincoln, the big car as anonymous as a motel room. If she was looking for clues, it was a dead tie at zero.

Something about the way she sat in the big car. With me, but by herself.

Just outside Hammond, we drove up on a freestanding drugstore, as big as some supermarkets. "Can you pull up there for a minute? I need a couple of things."

I nosed the Lincoln into the mostly empty parking lot, figuring to stay in the car and wait for her. A car engine roared on my left, freezing Blossom to her seat. Screech of tires. An orange Camaro was leading a black Ford and a blue Nova in a tight circle, pebbles and dirt flying off the blacktop. The Camaro pulled out of the circle, looped back and shot toward the center, bisecting the other two cars. It looked like aerial maneuvers on the ground, the cars peeling off to dive-bomb the center.

The cars fanned out and we both saw it at the same time. A seagull, one wing extended, dragging on the ground, awkward on its webbed feet. Trapped— beak hanging open, its orange eyes watching the cars.

I saw a little boy, tears swelling his eyes, his face red from the last slap, backing away from his bunk. Three bigger boys moving in on him. Laughing, taking their time.